


As early morning dies

by FreyaLor



Series: Blood red silk [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 17th century politics, Assassination Plot(s), Established Relationship, M/M, Protective Treville, Road Trips, Sick Character, very delicate Armand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-10-09 07:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 77,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10406619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: The Cardinal has to travel alone accross France to verify his suspicions of one more assassination plot against himself.Well, to be honest, not exactly alone.





	1. Three weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Here comes the second (and most likely last) long-lengthed fic about Richelieu and Treville.  
> After that, I think everything I have in my guts about those two will be displayed for you to read.
> 
>  
> 
> It is quite important, before this one, that you read the first fic, "Silver and Gold", if you don't mind, because there is a reference to it almost every 300 words. 
> 
>  
> 
> After the war against La Rochelle, I set my hands on the Plot of Cinq-Mars, one of the biggest assassination plots against the Cardinal, set in 1641.  
> Richelieu spent most of his life uncovering and defeating schemes meant to end his life. The fact that he died in his own bed from illness is sufficient proof of the genuine political genius he was. 
> 
> Again, for history afficionados, there are twists and cuts compared to real history, or there wouldn't be trevilieu and, we love trevilieu, don't we?  
> But if my vision of this dramatic, yet epic episode in Richelieu's life has caught your attention, I strongly encourage you to read further about it. Trust me, it's fascinating : 
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Coiffier_de_Ruz%C3%A9,_Marquis_of_Cinq-Mars
> 
>  
> 
> For those who asked for Richelieu's first person POV, my apologies, I tried and failed.  
> This first person POV requires a character with a somehow plain, modern and flexible way of thinking, and this is only possible with blunt, honest Treville. Nevertheless, I have done my best to make Richelieu more available and readable here. 
> 
>  
> 
> It starts almost too cute, but trust me, there will be angst. There always is.

 

 

 

**PART ONE : As early morning dies**  
  
  
  
  


 

- “ You can't leave me, cardinal! »

 

 

 

Louis is so close to banging his foot on the floor that I can almost hear the sound of it.

Richelieu doesn't move an inch, affable, suave, patient.

 

 

Oh, great. Here we go again.

 

It's early morning still, and from where I stand, I can see the gardeners tending the box hedges in hurried, accurate moves, hoping to get everything done before the King's noon stroll. It's early morning, the Louvres still smells of old wood and springtime. It's almost silent, only a few valets sliding from door to door, carrying plates and chamberpots.

 

It's early morning still, and soon those rooms will be swarming with fake smiles and too much perfume. Soon they will come, in packs, in hordes, and throw up flatteries on the King's boots. They will come in the deafening howls of their whispers, they will come and chase the smell of old wood.

 

I hate the Court.

 

 

I hear Louis' steps around Richelieu's desk, furious, proud. If I can't turn my back on him without facing Court Martial, I don't need to  _look_ at him, right? The gardens are perfect in early morning light, and I've seen them argue too many times. I know, anyways, in his long and defiant sentences, in the harsh tones of his threats. 

 

The King's already defeated and he feels it.

 

He still has this fragile, childish tremor in his voice, though he truly matured a lot those last months. Because of life, because of war, because of battles won and battles lost of course, but also because of his endless, stubborn curiosity.

 

And, most of all, by the insane, resolved, constant work of First Minister du Plessis Richelieu.

 

 

 

 

-”I humbly remind your Majesty that in addition to being blessed with the honor of being at your service, I must also answer to my duty as the highest Roman Catholic authority in the country.”

 

 

Hah.

 

Dispute  _that_ . 

 

 

I turn my head further towards the window to hide the smile that's lifting my mouth. Those perfect, balanced, foolproof  _Richelieu_ sentences used to sound like magic to me. I know, now, I know, how he has them prepared in advance in this insane machine his mind is. Every argument, every question, every possible turn the conversation could take is already planned, measured, stored in advance. 

The Cardinal never opens his mouth unless he has every loose end tied to his fingertips.

 

Louis was defeated before he even finished saying good morning.

 

 

He is a great King, or soon will be.

But there won't be a day where he'll outwit the Devil.

 

 

I hear Richelieu gently unfold a few more maps on the King's breakfast table, read out loud a few more letters from abbots and Bishops, explain roads and turns and stages.

 

 

-”It is essential that your Majesty's will to support, embrace and protect the true faith of France is carried across the territory with both diplomacy and strength. The bishoprics of southern provinces have only recently returned to the Catholic faith. Brand new Benedictine and Cistercian abbeys need your assistance in spreading the true word of God, by both material and spiritual means. A journey through the country is long overdue, and since it is too long, and too dangerous to be done by your Majesty in person, I beg you to let me do it in your holy name.”

 

 

I wince.

 

_God, you really want this, don't you?_

 

 

 

It's strange, though. Whenever he has one of those gigantic ideas for a brand new battle to fight, he starts by telling me.

 

He usually choses a quiet evening, and lets me speak of my day first. Then he opens up slow, with vague notions and waving hands, gauging my face, searching for a laugh or a curse. If I don't shout too loud, he goes further, unfolding a few papers maybe. Opening some books. If I don't shrug and sneer, he pours some wine in my glass, to buy my attention, to pay for my patience.

 

And he talks, ardent and fierce, listing details and chanting glories of days to come. He talks, his hands dancing through the air, pacing, turning, spinning around. He talks, his voice slowly climbing from rigorous to ecstatic, and truth is, sometimes I stop listening just to watch him move.

 

Well, I listened enough to know he never talked about  _that_ idea. 

 

 

-”But, Cardinal. You'd be gone for a month!”

 

 

-”Three weeks at most, Your Majesty. I have everything prepared. Current businesses shall be attended to by the Council, according to detailed books I have sent already to each of them. Nothing of crucial importance is likely to happen before the end of next month, with the visit of the Prince of Sweden. If anything happens, you can have a fast messenger reach me anywhere in three days.”

 

 

 

Louis is walking in circles. I know, I know, that man is impossible to knock over, eh?

 

God knows I tried.

 

 

-”You cannot go walking along the borders of Spain and Germany alone! This is madness!”

 

 

Silence.

 

 

Wait, there should be a sentence here.

 

He's not used to let silence stretch in his arguments. He never lets anyone breathe until they're exhausted or conquered.

 

I turn to him. Was he looking at me?

 

I won't know, he's already moving around the table, his slender hands dancing in elegant moves. He looks flustered, but it's fake, I know that. Oh, he's good, but I read him now.

 

He's up to something.

 

 

 

-”The lighter my company, the safer it will be.” He humbly pleads. “This is an holy duty, a pilgrimage, a faithful spreading of your own holy light. God will protect this endeavor.”

 

 

I almost roll my eyes.  _Right_ . You may have faith, you twisted, clever serpent, but not that much. 

 

And yet, Louis looks moved by your wide, almost teary eyes, God you're good, but it's all fake, I know you by heart. I know that dance of your hands, they move in soft circles because if they didn't, they'd be shaking.

 

 

You're up to something.

 

 

-”I admire your trust in God, Cardinal, but I am a more practical man. You might be the highest clerical authority, but you also happen to be my Minister and, as you said,  _at my service_ .”

 

Richelieu lets out a dramatic, thwarted sigh, and Louis is beaming. Hah. The Eminence of Lies knows his business alright. The falter of the steps, the half spin-around, the stammered words, Lord, everything is perfect. He's the best performer I've ever met, and that makes him some kind of dreadful.

 

 

-”I will take with me a few of my Red Guards...” Richelieu softly concedes, but the King dismisses the idea with a shrug.

 

-”My Musketeers are more skilled.”

 

 

More frustration, mild annoyance, a bit of outrage, all of them chiseled, perfect deceit.  
  
I know you.

 

 

Half-hearted, yet obvious submission. He says no more. The long, wide robes of blood red silk pass around the King in reverent hisses. His humble stance holds on, but his eyes are fixed, intense. I know that look, the trap is set. He's waiting.

 

-”I will select a troop of fifteen of my best Musketeers as your personal guard.” The King states.

 

 

-”I beg you not to!”

 

He joined his hands, lowered his head. He turns and spins in despair, oh, the devil he is. Louis is caught, wavering, already cutting his resolve in half. He's practically enthralled as Richelieu steps closer in a magnificent show of agony, grabs one of his hands in a delicate, solemn gesture and pleads softly :

 

-”Fifteen is far too much for my humble person. More so, no abbey, no monastery would welcome gladly such a display of weapons. I'm afraid it would serve against our very purposes.”

 

 

Louis clasps his other hand on the thin white fingers and almost begs :

 

 

-”Take only one then. But take the very best that is.”

 

 

 

The Cardinal doesn't speak. He tilts his head, and I know that face. Damn, I know that face, that radiant, terrifying stare. The trap has worked, the prey is caught.

 

 

Whatever he was up to, he's winning.

He's gloriously, flawlessly winning.

 

 

 

-”Take Captain Treville with you” Louis orders.

 

 

 

**Oh, Lord** . 

 

 

 

 

 

I straighten my back, clanging my spurs, duty personified.

The King is walking to me, determined, but I don't care much.

 

 

For behind his shoulder, I see that smile.

 

 

That wide, victorious grin I know so well and fear sometimes.

He had it all planned, the shrewd, devious, amazing  _bastard_ . 

 

 

-”Treville, you will protect the Cardinal during his journey.”

 

 

Clang. Bow. Look mildly annoyed.

 

-”As you command, your Majesty.”

 

 

 

 

There is some more talk, I think. I don't care much.

It's all dulled by the sound of my beating heart, the maddening war drums of blood in my ears.

 

 

I'm not sure I understand what just happened.

 

There is some more talk, where Armand praises the King on his wisdom, about one or two trusted valets to be chosen, and the best carriage the Louvres can afford to be prepared. There is some more talk about us leaving somewhere around tomorrow, so we might travel faster than the actual news of our journey. There is some more pointing roads, some more listing cities. I don't listen. I turn back to the garden, my teeth gritting, my hands clenching.

 

Early morning is dying, I don't care much.

 

The gardeners are raking the alleys of white sand.

 

Three weeks. Leaving  _tomorrow_ for three weeks. 

 

God, I'm not prepared. My men will have to keep up to their schedule. I have orders to shout, orders to whisper, orders to write. Damn, I'm not prepared, because of course you didn't speak a  _word_ of it to me in advance, oh, thank you, you vicious crook. You always thought my plans to be lesser than yours, haven't you? 

 

 

Well, truth be told, Armand, they may be.  
  
They may be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hear creaking sounds in the rooms next to ours, footsteps above the ceiling.

Morning is dying, and soon they will come, in hoards, in packs, in whispers and laughter, flooding the room in over perfumed mud, begging, chanting, dancing for attention.

 

 

I can't bear the sight of them.

 

 

I guess it's time for me to retreat to my garrison. Morning training starts in half an hour after all.

 

 

 

I turn back to the King, absorbed by a bunch of letters the Cardinal has pushed in his hands. While Louis reads aloud some morose praise by a distant abbot in Bordeaux, Armand catches my eyes, has a furtive smile. A glance is all he can spare for me, and I see him trying to pour something sweet in it.

 

But the doors open, and the wolves crawl close. Bowing, gasping, hailing.

 

 

I can't bear the sound of them.

 

 

On a nod towards him, I slowly step back and leave. The King doesn't notice, the wolves around him already eating him whole.

 

 

 

I'll walk to the garrison trough the gardens.

It isn't shorter.

 

But I like the idea of the white sand alleys being raked for my old boots, long, long before theirs.

 

 

 

As the early morning dies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

**PART ONE : Three weeks.  
**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-” Three weeks?”

 

 

 

-”Yes.”

 

 

 

He is quietly packing his books. Not the ones his servants can touch. Not the ones people actually know of. The other ones.  _His_ books. The ones he told me to burn on the very day  _something_ happens to him. 

 

Well, nothing will ever happen to him.

Nothing, no one. I'm there, now.

 

I'm there.

 

He gently arranges them in a large leather trunk, his thin, graceful fingers sliding upon them with a care I suddenly resent, I don't know why. He sorts through the papers, selects, classifies, all in solemn, dignified calm, and I swear I'd punch him into a pulp, come on, for God's sake,  _talk to me._

 

 

 

 

Look at me, I've spent the day stunned by disbelief, and the first man who saw me walk back from here in the courtyard thought I was sick.

I had to call Aramis and Fournier in my office twice, to split three weeks of schedule between them. “The King can't send you away like that! You're the Captain of his own guard!” Aramis claimed.

I grunted something about the King having all the rights, and I must have looked cross enough, because he spoke no more.

 

Well, I  _was_ cross. 

 

 

To a certain extent.

 

 

I heard protests and endless strings of questions all day long, and they only deigned to shut up late in the afternoon, as I decided to give them their pay in advance before I go, rather than late, when I'd be back. Oh, praise God, Musketeers will be Musketeers after all.

 

This didn't work for Athos and d'Artagnan of course, who kept running around me until nightfall, begging me to take them with me.

 

-”You?” I laughed. “Actually  _volunteering_ to protect the Cardinal?” 

 

-”We're not offering to protect the Cardinal, we want to protect you.” Athos quietly stated, and something warm, I don't know what, made my fingertips tingle.

 

-”Richelieu makes himself an enemy every time he breathes” d'Artagnan added. “It's hard enough to keep him alive behind thick walls, so the task will be near suicidal in a light carriage on the road. With all due respect, captain, one man isn't enough.”

 

 

Hah.

 

How little they know of him.

 

 

Well,  _I_ know how he prepares a travel. I've seen it before, if only they knew. I am sure he has planned three different routes for each stage of the journey, two of them he didn't write anywhere. He  _memorized_ them. He had the carriage painted brown and covered in mud, asked for workhorses instead of the fine stallions of the Court. If needed, five other carriages, one of them disguised as a wool merchant, are waiting along the road. His men, dozens of them, have already cleared the way for sure, and prepared halts twenty days ago. 

 

He never starts anything until he has every loose end tied to his fingertips.

 

 

I grunted some more about their doubting my skills. They objected loudly. I promised to be careful. It didn't exactly suffice, but they didn't have a choice.

 

-”I'm older.” I shrugged. “I've seen more filth, more vice and more evil than you could imagine. I'll smell it from far away. And if I don't, if I fail to protect Richelieu, cheer up ! You'll have the comforting news that though I won't come back, well, neither shall he.”

 

With that, I sent the away to the clinging sound of their well-earned pay.

 

 

It was enough to stop their questions.

Not mine.

 

 

Not mine.

I rode back to the Palace as soon as I could, not too long after supper. He didn't send word, but I couldn't care less. I resolutely slid through the secret door and nearly bumped into him as he carried two huge volumes of  _Gaul's Wars_ to a shelf next to me. 

 

As always, he didn't seem to notice. As always, he didn't even seem to care.

He knows, I'm sure he  _knows_ how it drives me insane, but he keeps on, highly amused, I'm sure. 

 

 

 

I sighed and let myself fall into a large chair next to his desk.

He quietly went on with his meticulous work, probably following to the letter one of his insane mental lists. His face was quiet and focused, still beautiful. He always is.

 

He didn't speak ten words since I came in one hour ago.

 

 

For God's sake, Armand. Talk to me.

 

 

 

Is torturing me so damn pleasant?

 

 

He's wearing those lighter robes, something thinner in dark red silk he only has in summer days, and his felt shoes stride along the wooden floor in perfect silence. He slides near me with a map of Germany rolled between his hands, and seems to sense my boiling anger. He doesn't stop, he doesn't look, but his fingers gently graze my shoulder as he walks by, and my skin there almost burns.

 

 

My skin will always burn.

 

 

 

Damn, I wish I could get up and insult him until he steps back in fear, but I'm a hopeless fool and he knows it. I am grinning, I'm sure I am.

 

I'll never learn.

 

 

I let my gaze sweep his desk, looking for some wine, and finding a small bottle of Bourgogne next to the quill. Good. I get up and grab it, knocking over a huge pile of letters, oh, nevermind.

I look up to him. He saw.

 

 

I grunt and pick them up.

 

 

Those are letters from monasteries, listing funds and favors they'd need from the King. Some of them adorned with magnificent illuminations in red, blue and gold. God, this must have taken a lifetime.

 

 

-”Maybe you should take those” I tell him, lifting the most garnished paper up to him.

 

 

He throws a quick glance at it over the rim of a heavy register called “agricultural account of Limousin” and shakes his head lightly.

 

 

-”I won't need them.”

 

 

I frown. Wait. Maybe I'm no diplomat or man of the State, but I'm not completely stupid.

 

 

-”Armand, those letters are essential matters of the Church.”

 

 

 

He has a tiny smile, discarding the register and picking up a leather folder filled with what seems to be coded letters instead, and gently whispers, his hands fumbling through the papers :

 

 

-”Yes they are. But this journey has nothing to do with the Church.”

 

 

 

_What in the name of...?_

 

 

My face must be something, because he truly laughs, and God, I love that sound. He closes the folder in a loud clap, and extends his arm to point at the huge map of France hanging on the wall behind me.

 

-”Look at the map.” He adds, playful. “Watch where we are going.”

 

I turn around and while I carefully follow the route with my finger, he slowly enumerates abbeys and monasteries we're supposed to visit. Lavaudieu, Bonnevaux, Fontfroide, Valmagne...

 

 

They're all in...

 

Bloody  _bastard of God_ . 

 

 

-”They're all in the lands of the Great Lords.” I gasp.

 

 

I step back, amazed, cursing at the map, at him, at myself.

Of course. He is Richelieu, after all, his secrets have secrets. His lies are false-bottomed.

 

And I will never learn.

 

 

The Lords of Guyenne, Languedoc and Limousin. Armand's eternal obsession. His continued distrust for the ancient lords of remote provinces is twenty years old by now. His constant, frenzied watch over the Dukes and Counts of the South has pushed him through years of sleepless nights.

 

Reading letters from his spies, sending orders for more.

Having the weakest of them killed, quietly searching for better ones.

 

All day, every day.

 

 

Well, he's right, of course. So far from Paris and the King, those great lords have a recurring tendency to allow themselves privileges and rights, raise taxes, and gather armies on their own. Those dark, medieval times when those ancient families were kings of their own lands are not so far behind, after all.

Those Lords, and the friends they could find beyond our borders, has always been the Cardinal's nightmare. The great threat to his dream of a greater France, of a greater King.

 

A shadow on the perfect painting of all his possible futures.

 

 

 

It's been a year or two he's been whispering that his spies are not enough anymore. Distance is making the Lords bold. Distance is making his surveillance work harder, if it wasn't impossible enough already. Distance is his next challenge.

 

I step back some more, still gazing at the map, cursing and praising him in my mind, not a word out of my mouth. I step back, and my shoulder hits his left arm, he's warm, how I love that feeling.

 

 

My own arm reaches back on his own volition and encircles his, I don't know why, doesn't matter.

 

 

-”Why did you tell the King it was all about the Church?”

 

He sighs, places the folder aside on a large table already covered in papers and books, and doesn't seem to mind my arm, which is good.

 

 

-”Because all I have is suspicion. My spies have brought me rumors, whispers, a few names, a few numbers. Not enough. I have to go there and see by myself. The King wouldn't let me go alone in a carriage across the country because of a hunch. I had to make it, somehow, bigger.”

 

 

He frowns, his hands waving in the air as he speaks, and unlocks himself from my arm as he starts pacing around, which is not as good.

 

-”And yet, I am sure of it, something foul is brewing in the South. Those low-breeds forgot quite fast who made their country safe and their life easy. They have been too many spanish guests at their tables, and they have spent much more money than what they should have. Someone is fattening them. Someone is pushing them.”

 

-”Do you know who?”

 

He turns to me, the filthy red of headaches rushing back to his eyes faster than ever.

I shouldn't have asked.

 

 

-”Of  **course** I do !” he shouts. “The Medici never forgave me for the day the King choose my services over his own mother. She works her best, now, the King's own brother at her side, to burn Louis' reign to the ground. She's reaching out, searching for allies, and if she can't beg for them, she'll pay for them. D'Orleans wants the throne so bad he can't look at it without sweating, and he's been Medici's dog for decades. The stench of her is everywhere in this, and she won't rest. She works her best, and I assure you, that woman's  _best_ is something to be taken  **seriously** .”

 

 

He pauses, hands mid-air, suddenly out of breath, his cheeks whitening, oh, for God's sake.

 

 

I rush to his side and grab him by the elbow just before he falters. Hah. I know you, now.

I know the language of your skin. Maybe the only one you cannot lie with.

 

He whispers some more, scattered details about Medici's allies, her letters caught by his spies, the plot he has to uncover, for the King, for France. 'I'm not sure they want to kill the King', he breathes, 'I'm only sure they want me dead'. With that, he slowly lowers his head until his forehead rests on my shoulder and I hold him close, how thin he is, did you even eat today, you blasted fool?

 

-”They won't.” I grunt. “They won't touch a hair on your head. I'll slit their throats long before. You'll only hear their voice as they beg for your mercy.”

 

He has a low chuckle, and though his face remains buried in my shoulder, his slender fingers graze my cheek in soft deference.

 

-”O, thou mighty knight of mine.” He breathes fondly.

 

-”Stop mocking me, Armand, or I swear I'll...”

 

 

-”I lied to the King to have you by my side.” He cuts in weakly. “Does it sound like a mockery to you?”

 

 

His words sink in, and something scorching hot is poured in my chest. It burns, it devours me whole, leaving me speechless and blind. I open my mouth, close it, what's the point. The most powerful man of France is gently leaning on my shoulder, and he tricked a King to have me in his carriage. His fingers are warm and delicate on my face, and all I can think of is pulling him closer to me, and kissing his neck twice.

 

 

Nothing, no one will harm him. I'm there, now.

They'll have to send an army to bring me down, and they won't, because we'll either be in an abbey they won't dare to raid, or on a road they won't even know of. The only thing we might fear is assassins, and there isn't one I can't deal with.

 

Nothing, no one will harm him, I'm there now.

In his carriage, at his side. Day and night, oh God, day and  _night_ . 

 

 

 

-”Three weeks?” I ask again.

 

-”Yes! ” He laughs.

 

 

 

Lord, I don't think I've ever been so happy.

 

 


	2. The Carriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a prelude to the actual story, that will be made of five huge, massive chapters, each one a stage of the journey, coming every two weeks or so.  
> It's rather short compared to the others, and a little stand-offish. 
> 
> Let's say you get a sweet good piece of Captain Dad. I know you all love Captain Dad. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for your kind, wonderful comments. You have no idea what they mean to me. I refresh this page ten times a day !  
> Enjoy !

 

 

 

 

**Two hours before dawn.**

 

The northern wind has come to visit during the night, and our summer coats may not be thick enough. It's cold, it's dark, and neither of us have slept much this night.

We stand in silence down the great stairs of the Palace, gazing at the main alley of the gardens. He looks tired, and his eyes are harsh and distant, but it's only him checking through his mental lists again. I can't blame him. I myself cleaned my pistol three times this night after all.

 

I almost begged to stay yesterday, but he pushed me to the door with a few reassuring words and vague advice about my sleep schedule. Hah. _Who's talking_.

 

You didn't want me to see you sit back at your desk and refine your plans all night long, did you?

 

 

 

 

Well, it wasn't a bad thing, for as I got back to the garrison, anxious and frustrated, I found Aramis sitting on the floor right next to my door, waiting for me with a bottle of old rum hugged tight in his crossed arms.

 

He looked a little more than tipsy, but wasn't wobbly or loud as he held the bottle up in the air and said :

 

-” A drink to your journey. I know you intend to leave too early for goodbyes, you old fox.”

 

 

I somehow chose to indulge his blatant lack of respect. For once.

 

 

-” How's the Cardinal?” he asked in a laugh.

 

 

And for a second, to the playful tone of his voice, I thought he knew, and I felt sick.

I took a step back, lightheaded, and his smile vanished as he got up. 'Captain?' he tried.

 

I raised a reassuring hand. Of course he didn't know. I had all the reasons in the world to see Richelieu tonight. I inhaled, I think, hissing something about the late hour, and the northern wind.

He still wanted to have a drink. Oh, well.

 

I let them in, his bottle and him.

 

 

I asked where the others were, and he described a game of dice at the Tavern having rum bottles as stakes.

 

-”I chose to leave in dignity with my first and only prize, there it is” he claimed, banging the bottle upon my desk. “The others are lost in the mortal sin of greed.”

 

I rolled my eyes, when will they learn.

 

I pulled off my weapons and armor, and he froze. I don't think he ever saw me without my uniform. I wondered for how long I had been training this boy. I think it's been eight years. Eight years without even taking my leather off, God, I should loosen up from time to time.

 

He kept staring at me, even after I sat next to him and put two glasses in front of us.

 

-”What?” I grunted.

 

He coughed, maybe blushed a bit, and averted his eyes, pouring the rum with caution.

 

-”That's the scars.” he said.

 

I stared down at my chest through the opening of my shirt. Ah, _La Rochelle_. Not a pretty sight I know.

 

-”Does it still hurt?” he asked gingerly.

 

-”In the mornings when it's cold.”

 

He nodded. He said he felt the same in his left arm.

I remember feeling a flash of sorrow, of anger. How old is he, twenty-four? He's too young to bear those scars, too young to know this pain. Those wounds are made for old dogs.

 

-”I wish I had been the one that arrow hit in the chest, that night in La Rochelle” he whispered.

 

I told him to shut up and drink.

 

We talked about routes and safe paths, tricks to secure a room, to detect poison. We drank too much of that rum, and maybe I smiled once or twice.

 

He asked me to tell him the story of that time I crossed Spain in a cart full of sheep again. He begged me to speak once more of the Campagne du Roussillon, when I charged and took two cities in the same week, and I think he actually applauded at the end.

 

Later on, he spoke of a woman he loved, and he wouldn't give me her name. I didn't insist. He simply said that she was far out his league, by rank, by wealth, by name. He sighed like all the brokenhearted do, and I think I patted his back for a while.

 

God forgive me, but Aramis is one of the best I ever trained.

 

An equal, no doubt.

Close to a friend.

 

 

Almost a son.

 

 

That's why, maybe, I didn't shout or fight, when he gently poured more rum and asked :

 

-”He's not so bad, right?”

 

-”Who?”

 

-”Richelieu. He's not the monster he's said to be. If he was, you'd have found a way out of this assignment. The King listens to you. If you wanted out of this, you would be. You aren't. So you think the Cardinal is worth the risk.”

 

The pause may have lasted for one minute.

Or for one hour, as if I cared.

 

Aramis didn't deserve a lie, yet I couldn't tell him _everything_ . Oh, I trust him for sure, but he wouldn't understand. Even I don't think I do. I had to choose my words _very_ wisely, and God knows I was drunk.

 

 

-”I want to punch that man every day of my life.” I said.

 

 

Truth.

 

 

-”But he is important.” I added. “What he does, what he wants to do, is what needs to be done, and nobody else can do it. The King needs him. The country needs him, and though his methods are nothing less than despicable, he doesn't live in a world where you can solve your problems with your sword and your honor.”

 

Truth.

 

 

-”Is he worth your life?” Aramis challenged.

 

 

Oh, damn you, smart boy.

Silence. One gulp of rum.

 

 

-” I believe in his purpose. He wants what's good for France, and we are Musketeers. France is what we're supposed to die for.”

 

 

Truth.

_God, I amaze myself._

 

 

He went silent for a long time, and I almost thought he had fallen asleep, but after a while, he told me in a slow, wary voice that he slept with one of Richelieu's mistresses once, just to steal something from him. Because he thought it to be amusing, because he didn't think that much.

 

-”He killed her.” He gasped. “He dragged her to the Forest of Fontainebleau and shot a bullet in her head like a he would a dog.”

 

 

I knew. I remember bringing to the Cardinal the news of the dead body found in the forest myself. He didn't even try to look surprised. But he couldn't hide a flash of smoldering guilt, of wounded pride as he dismissed the subject with a shrug. I've been furious, at the time, knowing he had her killed, and with no way to prove it. Later, much later, he confessed to me that the ghost of her never truly left him since, but as he _once_ trusted her, she happened to know a few things he couldn't let the first Musketeer passing by come to learn. 

It still sickens me, truth be told, but I know, now, how many decisions like that he has to take in a week. What it costs exactly, to misplace your trust, when you are Richelieu.

  
My bright, virtuous boy, here couldn't understand.

 

 

-”He terrifies me.” Aramis admitted. “Yet, you know, there is something in him I still cannot hate.”

 

He had a vague gesture around my face.

 

-”It's in his eyes, you see? There are too many thoughts in there, all the time, even when he doesn't speak. He's too passionate, to bloody _intense_ to be immune to any kind of love.”

 

 

 

In a thousand years and in a thousand worlds, there is none where I would have found a safe answer to that.

 

 

I poured him another glass, that's all.

 

 

The boy made a toast, definitely beyond drunk by then, and happily started reciting prayers. One for me, one for France, one for my sword and even one for the Cardinal.

I must have been euphoric too, because I actually listened, smiling, to the whole lot of them, before I gently shoved him out of my office straight to the dorms.

 

Before he stumbled down the stairs, he shook my hand twice and urged me to be safe. Again, I felt warm, somewhere in my chest, I don't remember. He staggered through the exercise yard and I stayed out to watch him, just to make sure he wouldn't fall asleep in the mud. Miraculously, he did reach the dorm, and as he opened the door, he froze, deep in thought. He turned his gaze up to me.

 

I couldn't hear what he said, and he entered the dorm without expecting any answer.

I think it was something like “He is a fucking graceful bastard, though.”

 

 

But I'm not really sure.

 

 

 

 

 

Graceful.

 

I take a look at his stern, bloodless face next to me. His long thin neck, his firm proud stance.

Yes. Graceful he is.

 

_And yet, you haven't seen him undress._

 

 

He seems to feel my gaze upon him and he turns to me, a serene smile on his lips. He opens his mouth to ask something, but the clopping sound of four horses in the alley cuts him short.

The robust, black carriage arrives, led by Puivert, the best driver in the Court. Four sturdy brown workhorses, nostrils steaming in vigor, walk in perfect ensemble towards us. Richelieu's loyal servant Jussac, and a young, promising Red Guard named Lagrasse are following on lighter, faster war horses.

 

Both of them more than able with weapons. So I won't be totally alone it seems.

 

 

Some part of me, the one that's not offended, is quite relieved.

 

 

 

The carriage stops in front of us. Jussac dismounts, quickly bows, then grabs Richelieu's trunks and chests to load them in. All I have is a thick leather bag, and I suddenly feel small without my horse.

 

But Armand strides to the carriage, opens the door, steps in, and holds it open for me.

 

Oh, yes, _right_.

I'm not riding a horse behind his carriage this time.

I'll be inside with him.

 

 

God, three weeks.

 

I take my bag and almost jump in.

 

 

 

 

 

The inside of the coach is carpeted in thick red velvet, a dark patch of wool sewn on the spot just above my head, to hide the Royal Arms I suppose. The seats are deep and comfy, easily unfolded into bunks. Thin, discrete drawers are built in the inside of the doors, hiding a short writing desk, ink and quills. The whole carriage is in ancient, heavy oak, with thick windows on both sides. Black velvet curtains everywhere, meant to isolate the inside from any scrutiny.

 

I check the wooden panels, the locks, the windows twice, and Armand chuckles softly.

 

 

-”Don't tire yourself out, Jean.” He speaks, soothingly. “If there is anything to fear, it won't happen before four days. One day for D'Orleans and Medici to learn I'm not in Paris anymore, one day to worm out information about our route from the King. Two days to plot an ambush and realize we're not there, since I gave the King a decoy route. After that, well, if they are clever enough, we might have to keep an eye open. We'll be deep into the Dauphiné by then.”

 

I take some time to marvel, again, at that ingenious devil, neatly arranging a few books on the seat, and pulling out of a drawer in the door a white sheet of paper to write on.

 

There's always been something grandiose in him, but I can't tell him _that_ , can I?

 

-”You are basically telling me there's no point to me until four days.” I grunt instead.

 

 

His steel blue eyes light up then, devouring me from head to boots and back. He tilts his head to the side and, far too slowly to be innocent, drags his fingertips on his lower lip.

 

-”Did I say that?” he breathes.

 

 

_You wicked..._

 

I wish I could throw something clever back at him, but there is wildfire in my guts, spreading down fast, and all I can do is clench my fists into the velvet of my seat, count to three, and lower my eyes.

He seems very proud of himself all of a sudden, as he elegantly knock on the wood panel between us and Puivert, ordering the carriage to get going.

 

 

What did he say, my almost son?

 

Graceful bastard?

 

 

 

 

_Hah._

Smart boy he is.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. CLAIRVAUX - Champagne.

 

 

 

**Part One : History of Provence**

 

 

 

 

He was right, the route through Champagne is too damn  _quiet_ . 

A generous sun is warming the inside of the carriage, and all we saw crossing our path was five merchant carts and two pilgrims. I do my best to stop checking my weapons or twisting on my seat like a trapped rat. I fail at both, miserably.

 

It's been three hours since we left the palace, and I still can't tolerate my own inaction.

 

 

First. I'm not used to this.

I've been thrown into battlefields, duels, ambushes, bad ideas and sad gambles. Never into the quietest carriage of France. I've been ordered to protect battalions, cities, forts, royal families and delegations. Never a man so clever he may not even need me.

 

 

Second. He's right bloody next to me.

It's been a year and a half since La Rochelle. Eighteen months made of botched nights and hurried meetings. Pushing the door after nightfall, leaving before dawn. One hour in his office, between Council and a Ballet. A few minutes in the gardens, between breakfast and a hunt.

 

One year and a half, and I don't think that if I stitched those moments together, I have spent three whole weeks with him.

 

And now. God, and now.

Now I am locked into a moving cell of red velvet and fine wood, with an eternity of time I can't seem to figure out what to do with. Sentenced to passivity, his skin within reach, his scent all around.  _I'm losing my mind_ . 

 

 

And his Eminence, of course, is reading and commenting a thick, forbidding volume about the history of Provence. His Eminence; of course, is perfectly comfortable with five to six hours of absolutely nothing else, and doesn't even seem to notice my troubled frustration, steadily growing into pure madness.

 

The summer sun passes through the thick windows to explode into his silver hair. His pale fingers delicately turn the pages and graze the tables there, his thin white lips biting his thumb from time to time. I'm losing my mind.

 

 

The endless flatline of wheat fields around us.

The perfect sky of monochrome blue.

 

 

Oh, the hell with it.

 

 

 

I groan a curse or two, and pull the velvet curtains down. All of them but one, the one next to his face, so I can look at him. He hisses in exasperation, I guess because it's too dark to read.

 

-”Jean, for God's sake, what are you...?”

 

 

He can't finish, because he gasps, as I kneel in front of him, take his hand in mine and cover the inside of his wrist in wet kisses. His skin is thin as silk there, and a mere touch can make him squirm. I feel his legs shifting, his boots scratching the floor in a whine he can't utter. Emboldened, I move up and lick two of his fingers. His legs shudder, I hear his shoulders hit the back of the seat, and he has a strangled moan that sets my mind on fire. My other hand reaches blindly under the endless waves of red silk, sliding up until it finds a slender, warm thigh. I squeeze, he almost cries out, and something in him snaps.

 

 

He pushes me away with a vicious move of his feet, and though he's obviously flushed and panting, he holds his chin up and he spits, guarded :

 

-”Good Lord you're  _insatiable_ .”

 

There's a part of me that's very seriously tempted to feel heartbroken, but he didn't draw the last curtain, I still can see his face, and I read too many things there.

 

There's this terrified shock reflex of his I still haven't managed to wipe away in eighteen months. It's a bit of fear and it's a bit of shame, it's the dread of all things new. It's twenty years of absolute control still glued to his skin. It's every law and morality of France, it's everything he has to be.

It's his own weakness petrifying him, I know.

 

It's not enough to separate us. After all, he was the one who walked alone through half of Paris to lay down on my old cot. He sent me letters that'd have him hanged, and told me words that'd have him burned.

 

But it's quite enough to unleash an inner war each time our skins do touch.

 

Truth is, there is desire too. There's a complex mixture of tenderness and adoration, and I have no idea how I might deserve this. There's raw need, twisted by the maze of his principles, squeezed and turned into a strange game of ' _no, but please, do insist_ '.

 

 

I sigh.

 

 

He'll never make anything simple.

 

 

 

 

 

I slowly sit back up, facing him, watching his eyes hold onto mine. His hands are joined on his book in a tight lock, his jaw tense and his shoulders stiff, and yet his eyes are dark and glassy.  
Waiting, expecting.

 

 

Please, do insist.

 

 

Alright,  _fine_ . 

 

 

 

There's still at least two hours until the horses need some rest, and his order not to disturb him during the journey was very clear.

 

After all, I  _want_ his attention. 

After all, I want his  _everything_ . 

 

 

Fine.

 

 

 

I don't speak, I don't need to. I sink deep into the cushions of the seat, slowly moving my knees apart, and his wild burning stare doesn't miss a second of it. I take time to watch his throat tighten, his fingers twitch. The subtle scratching of his feet on the floor. I feel more than I see his breath hitching. He does his best to maintain a decent stance, but there are  _some_ things he's not good at. 

 

And one of these things has my name on it.

 

The sight of him, fevered and blushing, only because of me, is more than I'll ever need. I slide one hand down my pants and stroke myself leisurely through the thick leather, jolts of pleasure already eroding whatever's left of my senses.  _I'm loosing my mind_ . 

 

As I have been for eighteen months it seems. Fine.

 

 

I quickly work my pants open, and he throws terrified glances around, obviously torn between disapprobation and pure, demented lust. Well, you don't always get to choose, Cardinal.

I pull my cock out, and he pales, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth. His fingers twist in an unnatural angle that will hurt later, and his lips open up, barely. He looks at me in disbelief,  _you won't dare_ , his eyes beg. 

 

Watch me.

 

 

After all, I want his everything.

 

 

I spit in my hand like all soldiers learn to do sooner or later, and grab myself tight. I let out a moan, because I can't tear my eyes from his neck, and I see the soft tendons there twitching. I think he breathes my name, but he makes no sound. His hands clutch the neat and clean pages of “History of Provence” hard enough to make the paper hiss. I start pumping in slow moves and he tries to look at my face, but there are  _some_ things he's not good at. His sharp gaze, violent with repressed want, follows my hips in silent awe, and he could devour me whole, and God, I wish he would.

 

I stroke harder, but slow enough to show him how I twist and move, how I mean it to be good. I know I am panting, but I bite on my sounds, because I want to hear his. He whimpers deliciously, and I hear the soft ruffling of his robes. His legs shift again, and I think he's spreading them a bit.  
He's hard. Good. I let my free hand grip the back of the seat above my head, and by the throaty groan he gives me, I guess he likes what he sees  _a lot_ .

 

I wish I could control my moves, I wish I could command, but God, he's squirming on his seat, hands shaking, clenched so tight they might break, and he moans softly. His eyes are blurred, glowing in the dimmed summer light, ardent, fierce, caressing me. He's magnificent, and I hear my breath come in short grunts. I won't last,  _please_ , Armand, come to me.

 

He doesn't, but as I feel my whole body shiver in pleasure, and slow my rhythm into something deep, I suddenly hear the page of his book being torn in two. I look up in a daze, his eyes didn't leave me. The crumpled, torn paper sheet falls on the floor, he doesn't notice. He just lifts his hands on his mouth and bites on his right thumb, hard. I cry out. My guts are turning liquid. My hips jerk up and down, my control receding.

 

I cry out in short pleas, now, and I may be ashamed of it someday later, perhaps. Not now.

I'm stroking fast and erratic, my fist glued in precum, my cock bright red and twitching, please, Armand.

 

Consciously or not, he slides two fingers between his lips and his quick pink tongue licks them in circles,  _God_ . 

 

-”Armand!”

 

 

Then it happens, I guess.

His everything.

 

 

I guess I closed my eyes, because I didn't see him drawing the last curtain, throwing himself at me, pulling my hand away from my cock and grabbing it with the fingers he was licking. He is straddling my thighs, I am covered in red silk, and God, he strokes me so hard.

 

-”Armand, I'm...”

 

 

He knows, and he presses his mouth on mine, devouring my scream as I come in a long, almost painful whiteout.

 

How long, I don't care. I know the seat creaks as I shudder a few times, that's all. His mouth only leaves my lips when he's certain I'm done moaning.

 

When I'm brave enough to open my eyes and face the mess I've made, I only see the Cardinal du Plessis Richelieu, kneeling next to me on my seat, out of breath, staggered, wiping his soaked hand into the torn page ninety seven of “History of Provence”.

 

 

 

I must have laughed, because he seems to realize what he's doing, and throws me a chiding look. He sighs heavily, folds the page twice, and hides it in a thin drawer, to burn it later I suppose. He opens a small trunk, then, to pull out a white silken handkerchief and a bottle of this herbal drink he can't go anywhere without. He pours a generous third of the bottle into the thin fabric and bloody cleans my own hand, for God's sake, you  _maniac_ . 

 

 

I push him back on the seat and devour the skin beneath his ear. He's cursing and twisting, but he's offering his neck all the same, so I think my victory is certain as I grab the bulge between his legs to give it a hard squeeze. He cries out, God, he's very close. I smile proudly, buried in his neck, but of course, of course.

 

He'll never make anything simple.

 

 

-”That's enough chaos for now, Jean.” He states, only a fevered urgency in his voice as tribute to the fact that he's two strokes away from orgasm.

 

And he pushes me away with gentle authority, until I'm sitting back where I was, his handkerchief between my fingers, an outraged growl in my throat, you must be  _kidding me_ .

The urge to pin him on that seat, rip off his breeches and finish him in seconds is almost unbearable. I could do it, I could, if I was that kind of man. He would submit to me, he always does.

 

But he seems very determined to catch his breath and calm down, head lowered, hands on his knees, eyes focused on some detail of the wooden floor.

 

And I know what it means. He is France, after all. Every law and morality.

In my dreams, I'm able to overcome all those barriers in his complex mind each and every time I want to make love to him.

 

Hah.  _In my dreams_ . 

 

Truth is sometimes, I have to get him  _drunk_ so I can kiss his hands. 

 

 

Yes, I could subdue him, if I was a different man. If I was less than a man. But I am one, at least I can say that.

I am a man, a Captain, a Count, and his  _lover_ . 

I'll just sit there and let him breathe.

 

 

I close up my pants in silence, check the inside of the carriage, and softly pull back the curtains, one by one, letting the warm summer light back in. It rushes to brighten up his pale skin, covering in white brushstrokes the heavy waves of blood red silk. The roads of Champagne haven't changed a bit, small villages lost in wheat fields, humble hilltops covered with vines. The clopping sound of four horses in front, two horses behind.

 

 

High above, monochrome in blue.

 

 

 

I look back at him. He's facing me, his composure rebuilt on wetlands. Once his breathing quiets, since I can't touch him in broad daylight, I ask him if he's alright, and he nods with a faint smile. He softly tells me how many miles we still have to go, where we'll stop to let the horses rest and something about cold food he ordered to be prepared in a trunk under my seat. He points out churches and towers on the horizon, tells me Clairvaux is behind that valley, that we'll be there before nightfall.

 

 

None of this matters, but I'm grinning like a moron, because he's talking to me.

He's talking to me, reserved, but caring. He doesn't even look at that book.

 

Good.

 

_Now_ I have his attention. 

  
  
  
  


 

  
  
  
***   

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Two : Étienne Fanjeaux**

 

 

 

The monastery of Clairvaux is actually larger than the town I was born in.

As the carriage slowly descends into a wide, open valley of scattered pines and wilderness, I can see in between trees the huge medieval maze of buildings, gardens, storehouses and orchards awaiting us. At the gates of the thick, sturdy wall circling the monastery, what seems to be a small market has settled, no doubt for the festivities of Saint Bernardus day tomorrow.

 

Armand has been sitting right next to me ever since the tale of the torn page. He talked, because I must have looked like I wanted him to. Naming towns and roads, pointing at rooftops and bridges, he even leant towards me, his lips very close to my ear, and I consider this a fair reward for that bold diversion I created.

 

He didn't go back to this awful “History of Provence”, lying still in a pitiful state upon the pliable writing desk. It's me who eventually gets up to close the volume and put it back with respect in the trunk, under his disbelieving, yet joyful stare.

 

-”Be kind and hand me the thin red folder you see in that trunk” he asks as I slide the book in.

 

I do as he says, and he opens the folder in a swift move to pull out three wide sheets completely covered in thick, yet organized writing.  _His_ writing. 

-”What is it?” I inquire without thinking.

 

I should stop. My questions about the things he writes never end well.

 

-”My lecture for Saint Bernardus' mass tomorrow morning. The abbot Largentier went to the seminary in Paris, so when he learned I would be visiting, he literally begged me to prepare a mass.”

 

-”A question of prestige I suppose.”

 

 

He chuckles, and has for me one of those patronizing glances that make me want to punch him to death.

 

 

-”No, Jean, a question of money. A Cardinal showing support from the King will double the interest of donators. Having me in his pulpit will fill the Church with people hoping for favors and quite ready to pay for them.”

 

_Hah_ . The Roman Catholic Church, ladies and gentlemen. 

 

Checking my weapons again, maybe just to keep my hands busy, I look at the overview of Clairvaux one last time before it disappears behind thick woods. I quietly search for weak spots in the walls, open spaces to avoid, defendable places to hide into, then something hits me, and I tap the window to pull him out of his reading.

 

-”If you have put so much effort into making this journey secret to your enemies, why did you announce yourself to the abbots in advance ?”

 

His face brightens, and a delicate glint passes in his eyes, mostly made of pride. For me or for himself, I have no idea.

 

 

-”Because there a no circumstances I could think of for a cardinal on official Church duty to come unannounced in any Abbey of France.” He says. “Moreover, well, I only send word of my incoming visit to the destination ahead right before we leave the previous stage. So I am sure that wherever we might be on our way, only one person, apart from our small company here, knows where I'm going. So if we ever get ambushed on the way, though this is highly improbable, I will know who betrayed us.”

 

 

_Son of a..._

 

 

-”  **What?** So we'll basically be walking ambush  _bait_ ?” I growl. “ That's insane! You're actually  _tempting_ them to try and kill you just to test them one by one? Armand, you have gone mad! How can you even be sure you'll survive?”

 

 

In my anger I almost loomed over him, shouting at his face so loud he had to lean backwards, sliding away on the seat a few inches. His fingers twitch, and there is uneasiness in the curve of his shoulders, but his voice remains perfectly steady as he breathes, confident :

 

-”Well, you're here, aren't you?”

 

 

Awestruck, I sit back heavily. Good Lord, who exactly does he think I am, some kind of deity?

Plans and precautions rush into my mind in a hurried, panicked trance. ' _This man is hard to keep alive_ ' D'Artagnan said. 

 

I should listen to my boys more often.

 

He seems to follow my thoughts, he always does. He straightens up, gently lays a hand upon my sleeve and gathers his most reassuring Cardinal voice :

 

-”Jean, I swear the danger is not so great. Most of these abbots are trusted men, loyal to the King, and if they couldn't keep a secret, well, they wouldn't be abbots, believe me on that. I told you, The Medici can’t prepare anything before three days, and after that, she still needs to find us. There are  _hundreds_ of Abbeys I could be in. Meanwhile, I firmly intend to find out enough about that plot to bring it down before it rises. I’ve got it all planned, please, beloved,  _please_ , don't worry.”

 

I want to yell, I want to scream, I want to slap his face and ride back to Paris, but he said “beloved”, and the bastard knows exactly where and when to use that word.

 

God, I'm on my own in a carriage, protecting a man against the murderous hate of nothing less than two good thirds of this bloody continent.

 

I am insane.

_As I have been for eighteen months it seems._

 

 

Fine.

 

 

 

I sheathe my pistol and let out a long, exasperated sigh, leaving him with a stare that I hope is very clear about my opinion. It must be, because he bites his lips and lowers his head. Good.

 

Voices and music draw my attention to the window. It seems we've already arrived at the market. It looked smaller from above. Now I count at least forty merchants and craftsmen, some of them Dutch, one of them Italian. It's quite a lot for a small town. The monastery must be immensely wealthy.

 

Why is the carriage stopping? We're not at the gates yet.

Oh, for God's sake.

 

Jussac rides his horse closer and calls me. I lower the pliable upper half of the door, and lean outside.

 

-”Captain, the path is blocked by two loaded carts.” Jussac points out, and I growl, getting out of the carriage in hissed profanities.

 

Armand moves to follow, and I slam the door into his face.

 

-”You, **not a move** **!** ” I shout. 

 

 

Jussac pales, eyes wide, obviously expecting Richelieu to ask him to cut my head off. But the Cardinal only straightens his back, lifts up his chin, waves a delicate hand towards the front of the carriage, and sneers :

 

-”Captain. Those are only  _merchant carts_ .”

 

-”Yes!” I spit back, “And that's how Henry the fourth was murdered.  **Inside!** ”

 

I don't wait for an answer, I run to the front. Puivert is already arguing with five local men, telling them to pull out of the way in three different dialects. I look around, there's far too much people here. Too much confusion, too many barrels and too many wooden stalls. Too many men, women and children, in tight packs around us. Something's wrong. If the massive carriage wasn't enough, our voices are gathering more crowd by the minute, and I don't like that  _at all_ . 

 

-”Jussac! Lagrasse !” I call. “Guard the carriage doors! Let no one approach!”

 

They nod and position themselves. Voices are rising in scattered shouts all around, some of them angry. A group of fifty is quickly surrounding us, curious, noisy, compact, oh, I don't like that.

 

-”Look at those horsemen!” a massive red-faced man yells. The butcher no doubt. “And those full-steeled wheels ! That's the tax collector for sure !”

 

-”Yes, coming back to bleed us dry, isn't he?” a scrawny woman hisses.

 

-”On a holy day no less!”

 

-”Greedy rat !”

 

-”We have nothing more, you demon!”

 

-” **Get out of town !** ”

 

 

 

Oh, yes, a  _jacquerie_ , that's all I need, thank you. 

I must be quick.

 

I draw out my pistol, point it at the chest of one merchant blocking the way, a dealer in wine, by the stains on his shirt.

 

-”You. Roll away,  **now** .”

 

The tall, nervous man gauges me with terror and rushes to his cart to guide him off the path. There's hardly any space for him to move around. Damn, now I wish I had my horse again.

I run around the wine cart, pushing the crowd away, yelling orders and threats, and by the look on their faces, I must be impressive enough. Good. They don't need to know I'm one twitch away from shooting in the air.

 

Now, the rest of them.

 

I slide under Puivert's feet to the other side of the carriage, to face sixty town folks shouting at us. None of them sound like they planned any of this, and they don't even look drunk, but God, they're sure angry. Men roar, their fists up in the air, looking around for other men to roar with. Women shriek, spit on the ground, their voices high and low in a chaotic chant. It's like a terrifying rite, their howls taking turns, bouncing on each other, spiraling up fast from anger to fury.

 

-” We gave our tithe to the King last month! What more do you want?”

 

-”And if there was only the King! The Lord wants his share too!”

 

-”And the bailiff, and the abbot !”

 

-”We're nibbling on rocks at the end of winter, while the Bishop and the Lords keep getting fatter!”

 

-”Susanne had four kids! Only one survived last year's winter !”

 

-”Shame on you!”

 

I turn my head back to the wine cart. Only halfway out, damn, too slow. I have to try something. I take Jussac's place near the door, and send him riding in circles around the carriage to push them back.

 

-”Shout !” I command, “But don't draw your sword. We don't want any bloodshed.”

 

He obeys, brave man, and rides on, vociferating in loops.

It works, to a certain extent. They do step back, but it does nothing to calm their hatred.

 

A woman picks up a small rock and throws it on the carriage, God, in less than one minute I'll have a riot to deal with. They'll burn this carriage down because they think he's the bloody  _tax collector_ . Surely the first time Richelieu is hated for something he actually isn't. 

 

Heavens, move that goddamned wine cart away.

 

I stand my ground under the door, weighing my odds, choosing the first man to strike, looking for weapons beneath their coats. If Jussac and Lagrasse's horses could scare them a bit, scatter them around, I think I could hold on long enough for Puivert to move forward to the gates. I'll wound the butcher first, he seems to be the leader. If they have nothing but knives, I'm safe. If one of them has a gun and I'm wrong about which one, I'm dead.

 

 

Oh Lord, there's sixty of them. I'm on my own. I must be insane.

 

 

My boys, they told me so,  _they told me so_ . 

 

 

 

 

The voices chant in discordant howls, higher, louder.

 

-”Go back to Reims, leave us alone !”

 

-”You're already starving us, you demon, off with you!”

 

-”Leave or we'll hang you!”

 

-”Yes!  **Hang him!** ”

 

One, two more rocks hit the carriage, and that's it. I draw my sword.

 

I take three steps forward, my eyes fixed upon the butcher, planning my five first moves, muttering a prayer I can't even remember right.

 

And suddenly, they all fall silent.

 

I look at their faces, gazing up behind my back in awe, and I squeeze my eyes shut.  _No_ . Not that. 

 

 

_Armand._

 

 

 

I turn around, and of course, the reckless fool is standing upon the footboard, tall and elegant, draped in heaps blood red silk, perfectly quiet, oh you  _idiot_ , how can I keep you safe if you...

 

-”Now, now, what seems to be the matter?” he gently asks around, a subtle, bloody  _saintly_ smile on his lips. 

 

 

Half of the women already kneel and cross themselves in a hurry. A dozen folks step back from Jussac's and Lagrasse's horses, raising their hands in surrender. Yet I still see fifteen men with their fists clenched, their anger unblinking, and I wonder now, between their tax collector and bloody  _Cardinal de Richelieu_ , who do they hate the most? 

  
I move to a place where I can see all of them at the same time. Among them, naturally, the butcher. High as a mountain, large as a horse, his arms look like they could crush a grown man's skull. He looks around, assessing the faces of other men.

 

-”That's the Cardinal de Richelieu” an old peasant whispers. “I've seen his portrait in Reims.”

 

The name echoes through the group, in shock, in disbelief, in bitterness, in fear.

Richelieu,  _Richelieu_ . 

 

-”My brother served in la Rochelle.” someone gasps in the back.

 

-”He's a holy man.” a dark-haired maiden breathes.

 

-”No he's not !” says who could only be her sister. “Father told me he's the worst.”

 

-”They say the King is not master in his Council.” a young cobbler lets out. “They say Richelieu dictates his every word.”

 

-”Richelieu's our King's king !” a smaller man dressed in jesuit black laughs.

 

-”Who ordered those taxes if not him, then?” the old man goes on, and everyone turns to listen. “Richelieu is not a friend of the people.”

 

The whispers turn into a low, rumbling rumor, and I see more angry, hungry faces turn towards Armand again.  _Richelieu_ , Richelieu is no friend of the people. Richelieu is bleeding us,  _Richelieu._

Low murmurs rising in the air, fists clenched once more, the rite goes on. They're sixty, and they may even be right. I'm on my own, and I don't even want to kill.

 

I know that taste in my mouth. It's fear, welcome back old chap.

 

 

-” **Step back!** ” I shout. “In the King's name, I'll send the first man who gets nearer straight to jail !”

 

 

They all stare at me for a split second, and I hear a woman whisper a long sentence with “Musketeer” in it. Silence falls. Jussac's horse whinnies in anticipation.

 

After an eternity stretched on the five yards of grass between us and them, all of them slowly retreat.

 

All but one.

The butcher, of course.

 

 

He stands his ground, his dark resolute eyes fixed upon the Cardinal, and I'm not sure five men would be enough to remove him. I position myself exactly halfway between Armand and him, sword pointed down, the rest of me on edge.

 

-” Is it true what they say?” The huge man speaks, loud enough to be heard. “Did you raise all those taxes upon us simple folks?”

 

 

Oh, Christ, if they knew. Those ones, and many more.

Damn, this will not end well.

 

 

I glance behind me, the path is cleared, and Puivert gestures that he's ready, oh thank God.

I step closer to Armand, catching his attention.

 

 

-”Cardinal, please get back inside, we're moving on.”

 

 

And this senseless, deranged,  _blasted idiot_ just lifts a soothing hand towards me and softly shakes his head. 

 

-”A moment, if you please, Captain. This man is speaking to me.”

 

With that, he bloody steps down from the carriage and quietly walks towards the butcher, in God's name do you  _want_ to die? I growl, and allow him three more steps before I grab his arm and stop him, just out of the huge man's reach. We exchange quick, heavy glances, and I must have put enough wrath in mine, because he joins his hands and doesn't move further. 

 

He turns to the butcher and asks, affable :

 

-”What is your name, Monsieur?”

 

Taken aback, the man stammers, checking once or twice over his shoulder if the others are following. They're watching, intensely, and in an ungodly silence, but none of them dares to move.

 

-”Fanjeaux.” He blurts. “Etienne Fanjeaux.”

 

 

-”Monsieur Fanjeaux.” Armand caresses. “You are absolutely right.”

 

The rumor starts again, threatening, spiraling, but before any other voice can be heard above the rest, the Cardinal spreads his arms a bit, in a move of such delicacy, such innocence, that I myself am impressed.

 

-”The weight of taxes upon the people of France is far too great.” He states quietly, and silence falls again, all faces turned to him in silent expectation.

 

-”I have told the King repeatedly that something had to be done to have a closer watch over the exact number of taxes, levies and contributions demanded to each family through the country. The King in his goodwill is already paying the local Lords a sufficient part of the State's income annually, to make sure they can unburden their people of their own local taxes. If this is not he case here, the King should definitely be informed. Now, does one of you know how to write?”

 

 

The folks turn to each other, whisper in hurried tones, calling out some names, suggesting others.

I can't believe it.

 

He didn't even raise his voice. He actually turned their anger back at his own enemies in three sentences, and without raising his bloody voice.

God, I was ready to knock out half of these men, hoping to scare the rest away. I was even prepared to wound, and I knew I could have to kill.

 

And now, they're all searching for someone named Denier, because he's a clerk in Provins, and he writes properly.

 

 

Only Fanjeaux remains quiet, his eyes not leaving Armand's. There's something clever in that sturdy, unshaken bear. I wish I had more men like him in my garrison.

 

-”So the Duke of Champagne's dues and tolls are, you say, illegal?” He asks.

 

-”To a certain extent, yes.” Richelieu says firmly.

 

-”And the abbot's?”

 

Armand has a worried look towards the gates of the Monastery. They're starting to open, urgent shouting rising from behind them. The monks finally noticed us.

 

But Richelieu turns towards the butcher as if he had a lifetime ahead.

 

-”The King settled the prices for the use of the abbey's mills and ovens in law. Every single coin asked in addition is a violation of very important treaties between Church and State. That is why I am asking you again : do you know how to write?”

 

 

-”Denier can!” a gruff voice shouts.

 

A thin, lively young clerk is pushed towards us by a laughing crowd, his eyes fixed on the ground, blushing furiously.

He stumbles and freezes, standing one yard away from us, and won't look up for all the jewels of the Crown.

 

-”Good day, Monsieur Denier” Armand greets him. “I trust you have ink and paper?”

 

-”In my stall, Sir.”

 

-” _Your Eminence !_ ” Jussac corrects, and the poor boy looks like he could faint. 

 

-”Your... your Eminence.”

 

 

-”Excellent. Now, you will write a complete, exhaustive list of every tax, cost, and excise required in these lands and by whom exactly. You will make a very clear table of them all, have it sealed and sent to me, here in Clairvaux, by tomorrow evening before I leave. I will make sure the King reads it with all his attention as soon as I get back to Paris. Can you do that?”

 

The clerk nods violently.

 

-”You swear you'll tell the King, or is it one of you courtiers' lies?” Fanjeaux throws straight at his face, God, he has balls. I want to put a Musketeer uniform on those huge, brave shoulders.

 

And Armand, his eyes wet with bloody  _sincerity_ , bypasses me to meet that man, take his large hand between his thin pale fingers and plead, ardent. 

 

-”I give you my holy word.”

 

 

Oh, for God's sake, do you always have to be so dramatic?

 

 

And yet.

I know him, now, I read the subtle lines of his face as I could read an open book.

 

He's not lying.

 

He has for that man, and the horde of town folks behind him, a stare of raw, genuine  _concern_ . He told me many times he did love the people of France, but to be honest, they all say that at the Court. And yet I don't know one man in the King's Council who would hold a butcher's hand like that. 

 

He's not lying.

 

If he surely considers the war against Spain and the Habsburgs, and the insane amount of money it requires, as higher goal, he does care for those people. Well, not to the point of actually telling them the truth, the manipulating snake couldn’t resist a little move against the Lords. But after all, if they knew the reasons for those taxes, if they knew what he does with them, would they shout or would they cheer?

 

Were the borders of France and the power of the State of any comfort to them, as three children of Suzanne died last winter?

 

_Do I want to know?_

 

 

Fanjeaux looks completely lost, well, that makes two of us. He keeps looking down at the Cardinal's hands around his, as if he was some kind of strange, foreign animal. He's right, it's odd, the sharp contrast between their skins. Tanned, scarred and rugged against white, thin and fragile. The butcher would only need to strike once, and he’d kill.

 

But he nods, flustered, and even tries a short bow, before he steps back in slow moves.

 

 

 

 

-”Your Eminence, we do apologize!” someone gasps behind my back.

 

I spin around. Six panicked monks are running towards us, terror in their eyes, reverence in their hands. Ten more are mingling with the crowd, talking in serene voices, and in the local patois everyone seems to understand better. They spread into the horde, appeasing it, dispersing it.

 

Before they all walk away, the dark-haired woman who spoke earlier throws herself at Richelieu's feet, lifts the hem of his robes with both her hands and kisses in it devotion. Armand smiles like an angel could, and whispers something soothing, crossing the woman's forehead with two thin fingers. The woman beams in joy, her cheeks soaked in tears.

 

Sheathing my sword, I can't help staring in wonderment. Yes, it's true, I forget sometimes.

 

He's a Cardinal of the Holy Church.

_He is a holy man._

 

 

And I...

 

Oh, God, and I.

Struck by a pang of self-disgust, thinking of what exactly I did to that man in the carriage, I look down and run away, busying myself with having the horses guided into that Monastery, and quickly.

 

The Monks, bowing down low, escort Armand through the gates, where he gently walks in, with a last look of tenderness for the scattered crowd.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I leave him as he sits on the table of honor in the monks' dining room, amiably listening to the Abbot exposing his unfinished essay about the early life of Saint Sebastian. The monks look at him as if he was made out of the Christ's very bones, and I feel so filthy I could choke. His bearing poised, his movements slow, his smile serene, the look he gives me as I walk to the door is almost radiant, and I can't bear one more second of it.

 

I grab Lagrasse by the sleeve, pull him out with me, grumbling something about safety checking.

 

 

 

 

I don't see much of Armand for three hours after that.

 

 

Because three hours is what you need just to run around this bloody labyrinth  _once_ . God, this thing is huge. With Lagrasse behind my heels, I still inspect every single building. I want to know that place, the ways in, the ways out. I want to test the thickness of the walls, I want to check every locked door. 

 

This furious shame burning my guts into acid may, or may not have played a role in my ardor.

 

 

When I'm close enough to satisfied, I go back to the Abbot's office, where I've been told they would be after supper. I find Armand standing in the middle of a small room, a little more comfortable, maybe, than the righteous bareness of the Monastery, his arms full of what seem to be gifts. I see two ornate volumes in leather, a glass vial, and, I guess by the look of it, a silver censer. Surrounded by Largentier and two monks bearing their heads low, his heavy robes painted gold by candlelight again, he could be the main painting of an altar.

He’s so  _cardinal_ I feel my heart crushed by the weight of how ordinary I am.

 

He turns to me and the smile he was preparing crumbles into thin lines of worry when he see my face. He frowns, his eyes asking questions, but I can't even look at him without my heart twisting in guilt. I turn my back on him, eyes down, until the Abbot greets me with bright, obvious delight:

 

-”Ah, Captain Treville! I trust you are confident in the sanctuary our humble monastery can provide?”

 

I clang my boots and bow quickly without thinking, then I falter a bit. Am I supposed to bow? How do you salute an Abbot? I bite on the urge to look at Armand to check if I'm doing it right.

 

Oh, the Hell with it.

 

-”Everything seems to be in order” I grumble.

 

Largentier is a small, nervous old man with very mobile lips and absurdly huge ears. I don't sense any evil in him, as he trots towards me in quick, tiny steps to shake my hand.

 

-”It is an absolute honor to offer my hospitality to His Eminence, and of course, the Captain of His Majesty's Musketeers. Vespers have been sung one hour ago, I suppose you both would like to retire for the night?”

 

Vespers. One hour ago. Damn, is it so late?

I glance at Lagrasse and Jussac over my shoulder. They look positively exhausted, and yes, now that I think about it, night was falling when I began my tour. Oh. Allright.

 

I dismiss both men for tonight. They bow in a glowing relief they don't even try to hide.

 

-”Your trunks have been transported to the guests room upstairs” The abbot says, his tiny hand pointing at the ceiling. “Please, let me show you.”

 

And he walks away, with a gait that would make me laugh, if I didn't sense Armand's stare burning holes into my back.

 

Climbing up the ancient, yet noble wooden stairs leading to the guest floors, babbling useless details about the architecture and history of the building I won't even remember tomorrow, he guides us to a wide corridor, opening a thick door on the left, hah, I've checked this one. Good.

 

The room isn't huge, but still has a few luxuries none of the other floors have. A high sandstone hearth, large windows and, thank God, hot water in a tub. On the wall facing the door, an immense, terrifying pieta, Lord, I hate these things.

 

Close to the fireplace, a massive, cosy four-poster bed.

 

Wait, what's this cot next to it ?

 

That wasn’t here when I walked in earlier. It’s obviously not meant to be there, they must have brought it up from the monks’ dormitories.

 

I freeze.

  
  


Oh, God.

There's only one circumstance when a Musketeer is supposed to sleep at the feet someone else's bed. It is when a member of the Royal family must be protected day and night.

 

And of course, Armand won't be considered here as anything less.

 

 

I sigh. On any other day, I would have punched the air.

Tonight, I was hoping to escape from his red robes, at least for a few hours.

 

-”This is most generous, Brother Largentier” the Cardinal whispers as two monks dispose his gifts upon a small table next to me. “I will meet you in your office tomorrow, one hour before Mass.”

 

They talk some more, and frankly I don't care.

I have no idea what to do with myself. So I check the windows again.

 

 

But sooner or later the door closes upon them all, and silence falls, as heavy as death can be.

I scrutinize the yard beneath us, the buildings around, trying to look very busy, but there's no running away, I know, I know.

 

His deft hands slide around my arms from behind, and his breath on the back of my neck could almost make me cry. He removes my coat, leaving it on the table, and his fingers graze my shoulders. They're warm. I feel sick.

 

-”The tub is yours,” he breathes in my ear; “you'll like it. They make essence of roses in their gardens, they put it in everything.”

 

 

Oh,  _please_ , God, make this  _bloody_ day end. 

I turn around, my shame turning into anger in a second, by a sorcery I don’t understand.

 

-“What on  **Earth** were you thinking at the gates?” I roar, and he gasps, wide-eyed. “If any of them had a pistol, and couldn't hear your unctuous speech, you’d be  **dead** by now!”

 

-”Jean...” he prays, his hands floating towards my own.  
  
But I flinch away, why am I doing that? I can't even control my own breathing anymore.

I push him aside as I pace in circles around the room, this hazy pain inside my chest driving me mad. He bites his thumb in anguish at first, watching me yell at him in this absurd dance I cannot stop:

 

-”I told you to stay inside, you reckless  **idiot** ! Do you think your saintly demeanor is  **bulletproof** ?”

 

A piece of his resolve seems to break as he hisses, almost against his will :

 

-”Well, no more than your leather coat,  _Captain_ ! You were about to fight sixty furious peasants without even drawing your gun, and you're telling  _me_ I'm reckless?”

 

-”I would have fought sixty of them!  **I would have fought one hundred!** ”

 

 

His face twists in a mask of fury and hurt for a while, but he is so much stronger than me, he always is. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, raises a calming hand.

I wish I could be like him, but I'm still pacing, aren't I?

 

-”Jean.” He almost begs. “Please,  _rest_ .”

 

This last word, whispered with _that_ voice of his, stifles my anger in seconds. I still take two, three more steps. Then it stops. 

 

-”Tell me what's wrong.” He tries.

 

 

I look up at him, and I must be in a sorry state, because he's whiter by the minute.

Well, he's still glorious, his thin hands joined, fingers intertwined, parted lips and clear blue eyes. He's five yards away from me, but I still smell that incense they gave him. I stare at the waves of blood red silk, and the memory of that dark-haired maid slap me in the face, if she ever knew what exactly those robes have seen me do, oh dear woman, I am so sorry.

 

I'm a disgrace.

All I do is defile him.

_Oh, please, God, make this bloody day end._

 

 

I squeeze my eyes shut, oh no, not tears, not that, not now.

He has a small cry, and rushes to me in a silken red storm, I feel his hands cupping my face, I hear his sweet voice into my hair.

 

-”Jean, I beg of you !”

 

-”How can you?” I sob, oh, God, I am such a waste of space.

 

-”How can I what?”

 

-”Be  _you_ , be everything...” I gesture at him, at the gifts on the table, hoping that's enough. “..and be with me.” 

 

 

Silence.

After a while, I'm forced to open my eyes, because, you know, he was quite pale.

He still is, but his eyes upon me are a masterpiece in stained glass. Light blue, circled in red, like the frozen lakes of Gascony. They're so intense I cannot breathe, and he speaks, every word hammered in quiet, resolute certainty.

 

-”Jean Arnaud de Treville, loving you is the only thing I did that may redeem my soul.”

 

 

I'd need some time for the meaning to spread in my chest, I'd need some time to ask him why.

I'd need some time to inspect him a bit more, but there's this warm stare of pure adoration in his eyes again, and he looks like he wants to be kissed.

 

 

 

So I'll just do that, I think.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Part Three : As Early Morning Dies  
**   
  
  
  


 

 

I stretch and grunt happily, my eyes still closed, my mind still lazy.

I don't think I've ever slept in a better bed.

 

I don't think I've ever slept.

 

 

It's early, I feel it by the light through my eyelids. It's early, but he's already up.

 

 

 

He made me use that water in the tub last night. He washed each and every one of my scars himself, whispering sweet nothings, mostly praise, and amusing tales about Largentier.

He changed his robes for a plain white shirt, washed his face and hands in the water I had been in. 'Only servants do that', I said. He smiled and whispered 'do you want me to be one?'.

 

I had no idea what to say, and he laughed at me.

 

He laid down in bed, and as I walked towards the humble cot brought here for me, I swear he literally  _hissed._ He lifted his own sheets and showed me the empty space next to him with a nod. He tolerated no argument. 

 

He had that elegant, submissive stance he knows how to use when he wants more of me, but anything else than lying in his bed was beyond my limits. Hah, I know, who would have thought.

He sighed, but he didn't insist. It turned away from him on my side of the large bed, and he shifted close, throwing an arm around my waist. After a while, I remembered I didn't have to leave, this time, and the warm touch of his delicate skin made me smile like the moron I am.

 

God, I was tired. I think he asked if I was alright, and I said that I loved him.

'That's not what I asked' he chuckled.

 

 

But I must have fallen asleep.

 

 

 

It's early morning, but not for long, and he's still there. I hear him walking cautiously in the room, barefooted. I hear the sound of paper sheets, and his voice murmuring.

I smile again. I smile too much.

 

He's rehearsing.

 

 

I open my eyes slowly, and the hilltops of Champagne greet me in sunlight through old windows. He's there, his text in his hands, pacing quietly around the table, his unbuttoned robes floating behind his steps like a blood red train. He's there, Lord, he's gorgeous, if only he knew.

 

It's early morning no more, and I wake up next to him for the first time in our lives.

 

I call him and his face lights up.

He walks to me, and there hasn't been one single day in my wretched life where I felt closer to God.

 

 

I thank the skies of monochrome, I thank sunlight and rose gardens.

Because today his voice is the first one I hear, close to me, so close to me.

 

 

As early morning dies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the first of the five gigantic chapters this fic will consist of. 
> 
> The road from Paris to Chaumont, in the lands of Champagne.  
> Where Treville definitely has issues with not being the object of the Cardinal's attention.  
> Richelieu, on the other hand, has serious issues with control, and may be (perhaps) rather low on the libido scale compared to a very physical Treville. 
> 
> Then, Clairvaux, where we have a glimpse of the possible relationships between Richelieu and the people of France.  
> Except for the masses he did actually perform, mostly during the earlier years as he was a Bishop in Luçon, his actual contacts with the people were limited (and this more than anything else will later be the end of the Capet monarchy after the French Revolution), but we have in his writing sufficient proof he considered the worker and middle-class as the strenght of France (above the armies and the nobility), and would have wanted a reduction of taxes that was bleeding them dry. 
> 
> But, at the end, in his restless fight to protect the borders of France and maintain the balance of forces in Europe, and facing privileged nobility and church refusing to let go of their assets, he had no choice but to let heavier taxes be raised on the people, which pained him to no end. There was simply no other way to get the funds he needed. 
> 
> In spite of a growing hatred for him heard from the people of France in countless pamphlets and gazettes, and the desperate situation some remote rural lands were in, Richelieu's main goal remained international wars until the end. 
> 
>  
> 
> Does it make him a villain, does it make him a good man?  
> Well, you make your own opinion. 
> 
>  
> 
> If you'd like some reading about this, I suggest (for those who can read French) this excellent article :  
> http://www.cosmovisions.com/Richelieu.htm
> 
>  
> 
> If you'd like some books recommanded, please ask.
> 
>  
> 
> In the last part, I wanted to write about the ongoing inner conflict in Treville's mind between his feeling for one man, and the fact that this man happens to be impersonating a lot of things he does respect. State, France, and the Catholic Church.  
> Treville, like positively every man in 17th Century France, is a god-fearing catholic. He does have faith, and he does respect the authorities of the Church, and if he can manage this paradox with casual, everyday Richelieu, it's a different thing entirely when Richelieu is performing his duties as high religious persona, and is consequently worshipped for it.  
> The sense of guilt and blasphemy is, to my eyes a very interesting string to play with. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for still being with me.  
> In a few days, the next chapter : Bonnevaux, in Dauphiné.


	4. BONNEVAUX - Dauphiné

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the amazing Bean for my first beta-reading ever.  
> I never thought it would be so bloody useful, and I must apologize to you all for the dreadful grammar of everything I've written before.  
> I'm ashamed.

 

 

 

 

**Part One: Geneviève**

 

 

-“What you see on your left are the towers of Lyon.” Armand tells me as the carriage crosses a bridge over the Rhône. “After we pass them, we'll be in Dauphiné. If there is danger to be expected in this journey, it starts now.”

 

I nod, my hand on my sword, welcoming the smell of war as an old friend. He looks at me and smiles fondly, going back to reading a dull, endless letter from the Bishop of Angoulême.

 

 

 

 

We've been riding through the country for three days straight, only stopping in small cloisters, or upon the lands of loyal servants of the King. It's all been so goddamn _peaceful_.

 

The horses were replaced in Dijon, Armand refusing Puivert's first choice of stallions to pick farm horses instead, two of them already old.

 

“Speed is not of the essence, here”, he said. “Discretion is.”

 

The carriage is now covered with mud, unrecognizable. Puivert begged for permission to wash it, but Richelieu forbade even the smallest care. The poor driver grumbled something about our sanity, and well, I could relate.

 

But the truth is, it worked. After two days, we hardly caught any attention. Peasants and pilgrims don’t even look up as we ride by anymore. Most of the time, almost all the curtains are drawn, leaving barely enough light for Richelieu to read or write. I can count on my fingers the people who have seen our bloody faces since we left Clairvaux.

 

Those three days may have been the quietest of my life. Stripped of all that made me useful as a soldier, I've had no choice but to remember I did enjoy other things, once.

 

First of all, sleep. God, I've never slept so much. My seat has been unfolded into a bunk almost permanently. I've spent most of my time in that carriage drifting in and out of sleep, under Armand's serene stare. Sometimes, I woke up to him sliding close to me, kissing me hungrily for a few delightful minutes before he urged me back to sleep again, and peacefully went back to his work. Each and every one of my demands for more has been refused with sweet, yet inflexible words.

 

I didn't mind half as much as I thought I would. I just called him names and went back to sleep.

 

Second, simple joys. Like cosy beds and food. I've been eating at the same table as he for every meal of the day, and the monks have been particularly eager to demonstrate their hospitality. The wines were formidable. The cooking simple, yet colorful. The songs and prayers beautiful to the ears, once I got used to them. I never missed one precaution, one parameter check, and I had Jussac watch every step of the preparation for everything that landed on Richelieu's plate, but yes, I remembered I loved stuffed chicken and requiems too. I think I smiled quite often, because Armand positively beamed joy, visibly feeding upon my bliss more than on food itself.

 

And well, Armand. A quick word in between doors used to be my daily bread, tired kisses around his desk used to be my nighttime warmth. Eighteen months of this, and truly, I didn’t know it wasn’t enough, until this morning. Now that I am barely leaving his side, the hours of my day cadenced by his voice, the smell of his skin stuck on my clothes, the ruffle of his robes like a soft wind in my back, God, I never want to go back to how things were.

 

Forty years of neatly concealed solitude, burning regrets, and bittersweet daydreams.

 

Forty years of resignation, collecting scars and declining invitations.

 

Forty years, almost a lifetime, and I was ready to live and die in this respectable void.

 

Now that I wake up with his head on my shoulder, now that I feel the heat and the thrill of being loved, I don’t want one more day of this righteous _emptiness_.

 

I want to find his enemies, drag them to his feet, and crush them. I want him peaceful forevermore, because he’s gentler when he feels safe. I want him smiling like he smiled last night in bed, I want his laughter in my morning plate every bloody day.

 

Well, let’s say I just want to deserve him.

 

 

 

 

It's been three days and I haven't seen one of his spies report to him, or even a coded message being delivered. It's been Church matters, gifts, masses and banquets, nothing else. “There's nothing to report to me here,” he said. “These lands have been faithful to the King for a long time. This is France as I wish it were everywhere, from the Pyrenees to the Alps. Trust me, it's not as quiet down south. You'll have your fill of spies and intrigues in a few days.”

 

Well at least it all gave our journey for Church a lot of credit.

 

We left Claivaux after the celebrations of Saint Bernardus’ day. I didn't hear all of his Mass as I was running around the Church, watching every door, but though I think he showed only half of the passion he does when he speaks about the state, he did deliver a proper lecture. Something about forgiveness and hope, something very light, actually, and by the looks of it, he surprised everyone.

 

Because they were _all_ in the Church that morning, the local lords, the bourgeoisie and the monks. Behind them, sitting or standing, all sixty town folks, and maybe more. The dark-haired woman, the wine merchant, the clerk.

 

Fanjeaux had his eyes fixed upon Richelieu every time I checked, sometimes with a genuine, touching flicker of faith.

 

Denier did present himself at the dining room around supper, looking positively terrified, but bearing the letter as required. Armand took it, gave a warm blessing to the poor boy, and also, I think, a livre or two, if I saw the deft move of his hand correctly. The clerk left in a fervent bow, and as the Abbot asked what it was all about, the Cardinal smiled and said the King had made a priority to consult Denier about his views upon the way the State was run.

 

I hid my sneer in a gulp of an excellent red wine.

 

 

 

 

 

He folds the letter from Angoulême in a deep sigh of raw boredom and quickly writes a short, irritated comment on the back. He slides it all in a folder and back into his trunk.

 

-“How will you meet them exactly?” I ask.

 

-“Who?”

 

-“Your... informants. How do we meet them without the Abbot knowing? I don't know, should I expect them to sneak into our room at night, or wait for us somewhere between a dark alley and the cemetery?”

 

He gently laughs and shakes his head.

 

-“You have a very romantic vision of those things,” he huffs. “No, much simpler than that. There's only one man I need to meet, and we won't have to hide from the Abbot.”

 

-“Why?”

 

-“Because my informant _is_ the Abbot.”

 

 

Hah. _Of course_.

 

I smile, tipping my head to the smooth finish of his plans.

 

But I wonder, in truth, how many they are, Richelieu's men, and how much money they cost him every month, every year. I wonder who they could be; those silent observers who chose to place their bets on him rather than on the crowd of people wanting him dead.

 

I wonder what they owe him.

 

I wonder what he told them.

 

 

 

The journey to Bonnevaux is as quiet as the rest, though I still order Jussac and Lagrasse to take turns in front of the carriage as well as the back, and look around for anything odd.

 

I keep my weapons within reach, my eyes fixed upon the sides of the road, and Armand's stare sometimes shifts from tranquility to some kind of admiration, and yes, I think that’s what I was talking about when I said I wanted to deserve him.

 

We arrive around noon, without a hitch, without a gasp.

 

I sigh as Armand adjusts his robes to make a proper entrance, and I see him rolling his eyes.

 

Well, I'm not _disappointed_ , I'd just like to be goddamn useful, that's all.

 

 

The gates open for us with a loud creaking sound, moved by four monks in black. In the main yard, as Jussac dismounts to open the door, I suddenly hear children sing.

The sound is absolutely ethereal, and it feels like it could clean the air itself of bad omens. Those tiny, yet fierce voices singing Te Deum in perfect harmony almost twist my guts. Armand steps out of the carriage, and as I follow, I can see in front of us a small choir of twenty girls aged from five to ten, dressed in the most angelic white dresses I've ever seen. They all carry flowers and gifts, an elderly sister in front of them guiding the song with wide waves of her hands.

 

Heh. Pretty gathering. Worthy of a Cardinal, for sure.

 

I wish I could hear some more, but as Richelieu stands quiet and listens, I slide away to start my safety inspection.

 

Lagrasse behind me, I walk in slow, concentric circles, one around the reception party, then a wider one around the yard, and so on.

Bonnevaux is half the size of Clairvaux, but just as wealthy. Only a few dozen monks here, but the buildings, adorned by delicate handiwork in tuffeau stones, sing the glories of God in a much richer tone.

 

As we are in hostile lands, I don't leave one door, one lock, one wall unchecked. We walk down to the cellars, up to the kitchens, floor by floor to the attics and the framework of the dome above the Church.

 

The walls around the Abbey are thicker, more cleverly done than the ones in Clairvaux. A rampart walk subsists from ancient times, and Lagrasse understands, as we go all over it, where he's supposed to spend the night.

 

We search every room, making monks and servants gasp in surprise as we stride by. When I'm finished, of course, hours have passed, and I think Lagrasse is thinking me mad.

 

I dismiss him for the rest of the day before he actually speaks his mind.

 

I meet Armand unexpectedly, in the herb gardens, surrounded by a tight pack of monks. It wasn't planned, but there's a very passionate brother talking to him, pointing out bushes and flowers with pride and devotion. Hah. I'd bet a fortune those monks can prepare this herbal tea that eases his headaches.

 

Well at least there'll be one useful gift loaded in our trunks tonight.

 

I'm walking closer to report and something soft brushes my knees.

I look around, and all I see is a pale, skinny little redhead girl of four at most, running straight to Armand, crying her eyes out, shrieking apologies, with a messy, bushy armful of daisies hugged tight against her chest.

 

I'm pretty sure I haven't seen this one in the choir at noon.

 

I hear the monks trying to usher her away from afar, but the child is determined. Her dirty white dress floats around her delicate shins as she runs on, and she's most likely blinded by her own tears, because she only stops when she hits Armand's legs head on.

 

She falls, tangled in his robes, her flowers scattered on the sand alley of the garden.

Her confused crying doubles.

 

The monks, and that elderly sister I saw in the yard, whisper in panic among themselves, before I hear a mortified Brother explain to Richelieu:

 

-“That's Genevieve, Your Eminence, forgive her. She forgot the bouquet that was assigned to her back at the orphanage of Soeurs des Pauvres, and was not allowed in the choir. She was very upset not to be able to sing for you, and ran away in our gardens right before you arrived. Obviously to make another bouquet of her own with whatever she found there.”

 

-“Please forgive us, Your Eminence”, another monk begs, moving to remove the girl; “the child will be punished.”

 

-“You will do no such thing.” Armand states.

 

 

And before anyone says one more word, he leans down, and bloody _takes the child in his arms_.

 

I stop dead, my breath cut short, no idea why.

 

I stare, mesmerized, at something I didn't even dare to imagine, and by the looks on the monks' faces, I'm not the only one.

 

The Cardinal du Plessis Richelieu, the ruthless Red Man, his name soaked with the blood of his enemies , is holding a child in his arms, wiping her tears with his own sleeves.

 

-“Tell me, Genevieve”, he whispers soothingly to the sobbing child; “did you learn your song alright?”

 

-“Yes, Your Eminence !” the girl affirms, nodding.

 

-“Oh, very well. I hear you wished you sang for me earlier.”

 

-“Yes, Your Eminence ! But I had to feed the rabbits before we left, so I had to run to catch up with the others, and forgot...”

 

Her voice crumbles under threatening tears again, and the monks eagerly offer to take the child away.

 

Armand ignores them completely, and God, that light in his eyes. That soft, joyful focus he has for her. And how bloody _naturally_ the small thin frame fits into his arms, it almost hurts, but it's true.

 

It's true, after all.

 

A father is there, among the things he could have been, if he hadn't been forced to become a Bishop, back in Luçon, so long ago.

 

 

-“Well, I'm all ears, now” he gently tells the girl. “Would you sing for me, Genevieve?”

 

She nods again, vehemently, and starts her Te Deum on her own, focused, ardent.

He smiles in delight and starts walking again through bushes and flowers, through thyme and lavender, in the glorious sunlight of Dauphiné, spreading this little girl's voice around the walls of the abbey like the highest blessing they’ll ever witness.

 

As he walks near me, he briefly looks straight into my eyes, and my breath chokes in my throat. It's magnificent, and I thank God I lived long enough to see it. It's like a small, singing piece of Heaven, lifted and carried by blood red wings. It's surreal, as would be the painting of a madman.

 

But somehow it hurts like hell, too. Because this moment, this very moment none of the monks around actually believe in, may be one of the truest things I've seen him do in public.

 

It won't last; it's doomed to end, for he'll still be talking treason and murder to one of his spies tonight. But I think I just met for a few moments a man named Armand Jean de Richelieu, High Officer in the armies of the King, back from war to his wife and children, and somehow, though it means I wouldn't have been a part of it, I mourn for the happiness he would have known.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Two : The Abbot.**

 

 

 

 

The Abbot of Bonnevaux, called Father Antoine by almost everyone, is a rather plump, placid middle-aged man, with a strong taste for beer and a sharp sense of humor. The greeting festivities he organized have been sumptuous, and though I am told there still is a banquet prepared for us tonight, my eyes are already tired by all the beautiful things they have seen. It’s strange, that’s not how I had imagined his spies to look like, but, then again, I have a _very romantic_ vision of it all, haven’t I?

I just assumed his men to look as stern, focused and dignified as him.

 

How wrong.

 

Father Antoine has spent the afternoon laughing and joking in Armand’s ears, displaying all kinds of refined food and art objects for him to appreciate. He must know, of course, the true reason why the cardinal is here, but I guess it doesn’t hurt to leave a good impression.

 

There’s a moment though, when all the other monks have retired to prepare for the banquet, and we find ourselves alone in a small yet heavily ornate library, where the Abbot’s face transforms. His wide smile turns down into a softer, wiser one, and he locks one of the two doors of the room.

 

Walking to the other, he pauses, and starts in a cautious voice:

 

-“Now, Your Eminence, concerning our current business.”

 

He turns to us, his hand on the door handle, his eyes very clear upon his expectations for me to be dismissed. I clench my teeth, planting my heels into the wooden floor, doing my best to look outraged, but truth be told, I have no idea if I'm supposed to stay or not. So the Abbot and myself are both staring at him in the end, as Richelieu lifts his hands in reassurance and says:

 

-“You can speak in front of Captain Treville as freely as with myself, Antoine. He knows what is at stake.”

 

The Abbot doesn’t seem to need further explanation, and locks the second door with a nod.

 

I hope my surge of beaming pride isn’t that obvious.

 

Father Antoine searches through his robes, pulls out four sheets of paper in a roll. He unfolds them and places them in Armand’s hands.

 

-“As you advised me last winter, I recommended a cousin of mine as envoy for the Duke of Dauphiné’s private correspondences, using the weekly confession I give to his wife Anne, still very determined to take great care of her soul.”

 

Richelieu has a lopsided smile that is as good as spitting on the floor.

 

-“According to your plans,” the Abbot adds; “my cousin has delivered the first five letters with loyalty and efficiency, without opening them. Then, as their trust seemed to be gained, he started making detours by the abbey where I take the letters, unseal, copy and reseal them with this technique I told you about, using the forged copy of the Duke’s stamp brother Jerome carved for me.”

 

-“Oh, yes, Jerome, how’s that leg of his?” Armand asks, distractedly.

 

-“Fine, except when climbing stairs.”

 

The Cardinal nods, God, they’re talking about treason like they would about weather and bird species.

 

-“You have received, I trust, all the copies I could make?” Antoine inquires.

 

-“Yes, and we know the Duke is sending reports of his search for allies in Spain and Prussia, promising French lands in exchange for troops to help him, as he wrote, ‘provoke the necessary changes around the King’s council’. Which involves, at some point no doubt, shooting a bullet through my heart.”

 

My hand twitches around my sword, and I bite the inside of my cheeks to prevent the grunt of pure rage this thought pulls out of my throat.

 

_I dare them to try._

 

The Abbot nods, his good-humored stance turning into worry. He points at the four sheets in Richelieu’s hands and explains in a grim voice:

 

-“These have come to me yesterday night, and your arrival here might have earned us three very important days since I don’t have to send them to Paris. You will read there that the plot might be closer to unfolding than we thought. The Dukes of Dauphiné and Guyenne have agreed upon a direct attack on your person during the next journey of the Court around their lands. Thirty men with guns have been hired in Spain and are already camped in Guyenne. They initially scheduled the attack during the Court’s incoming visit to Tours next month, but they must have learned about this journey of yours by now, and the occasion is even better. They will be searching for you with all they’ve got as we speak.”

 

God, thirty men.

 

That crushing feeling of emptiness inside my guts, that freezing, sticky shudder spiraling down my back, it’s fear, my old soulmate.

 

 _Thirty men with guns_.

 

Dread gnaws at my insides, and I feel that cold muddy sweat drip down the back of my head, but I know this pain, I know what to do with it. I grip my sword, straighten my back, squeeze the fear down with the certainty of serving something good. The joy of fighting for someone worthy.

 

The privilege of dying to protect him.

 

 

I look at Armand, focused on the letters, white as a sheet, but holding up.

 

Lord, he almost looks like he’s bloody _used to it_.

And, well, he might just be.

 

One of his thin hands rubs his worried temple for a while, though, as the other gives a short shake to the four sheets:

 

-“That was to be expected.” He says; his nonchalance almost perfect. “Well, I am here, and ahead of them by a few days. I have what I need to bring down the most of them, or I will as soon as I reach Fontfroide. What I still need to know is to whom exactly they’re sending those letters in the Louvre. Your cousin is told to give them to Lantier, the Chamberlain, who is only a middleman. I have Lantier followed closely in the palace, but he’s good enough. All I have been able to do until now is to narrow the possibilities to four people having common history with the Medici. That’s not enough to take measures, I need a name.”

 

Father Antoine nods with a sly, wicked smile that looks positively frightening in such a round and friendly face.

 

-“Well you haven't come all the way to Bonnevaux for nothing. There is something to be done about that name, right here, tonight, something only you can do.” He points out.

 

Armand’s eyes dart up to him, and he starts pacing around, robes whirling around in silken whispers. He’s biting at his thumb again, nervousness starting to show.

 

-“Yes?”

 

The Abbot eyes him for a while, hesitating, obviously impressed by the tall red figure circling around him in repressed, burning irritation. He clears his throat, stuttering:

 

-“In her latest confession, the Duchess revealed that she actually knew who her husband was writing to. I am quite sure she knows nothing of the _contents_ of his letters, though. She only thinks her husband is making himself well-placed friends at the Court. The highest hope she entertains in this matter is to get an invitation to the King’s Ball.”

 

Richelieu lets out a dark, hissing laugh, and my mouth goes dry. Well, whoever they are, they have only one option. They must try and kill him swift and good, because if they fail, God knows he’ll have them all hanged on Place de Grève one fine morning, and he’ll make sure they know he’ll be watching.

 

-“The Duke must have told her to be quiet about it, and I couldn’t ask further questions without raising her suspicions.” Father Antoine goes on. “I had no reason to insist, as her confessor. But you, on the other hand…”

 

He falters again, long enough to have Richelieu stop dead in his furious dance, throwing him an attentive glance:

 

-“Me what?”

 

-“Well”, the Abbot coughs; “I have taken the liberty to invite her and the Duke at the banquet tonight. Of course, the Duke, terrified to look at you in the eyes, politely declined for health reasons. But his wife was _very_ eager to represent him. She has, trust me on this, a _sinful_ fascination for men of power, and her husband has been neglecting her for years. My thought is that she won’t fail to be susceptible to your rank, your prestige, as well as… your other qualities. If you could be _friendly_ enough...”

 

The silence that follows is heavier than the rock this Abbey has been built upon.

 

Father Antoine’s careful words sink in for a while, and I feel a storm of anger brewing in my guts. _That’s_ how we’re supposed to fight? How dare he even think about it?

 

-“You’re suggesting that I _seduce_ her into telling me who her husband is writing to.” Armand whispers, deadpan, and it wasn’t even a question.

 

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw hurts.

 

-“Maybe showing friendship will suffice.” The Abbot pleads. “Be pleasant. She will naturally assume you are a friend of the letters’ recipient in Court, and speak out his name quite easily.”

 

-“And if it doesn’t suffice?” Armand hisses.

 

-“Maybe a little more… _carnal persuasion_ will be required.”

 

I grin in advance, waiting for Armand to send this man and his filthy ideas crawling back into his beer cellar with a deadly sentence and a scornful smile.

 

 

 

But that sentence never comes.

Richelieu stands perfectly still, his head low, his wary eyes focused upon the empty space between his hands and the parquet floor.

 

Wait, you’re not _considering_ …

 

No.

 

No, no way. It’s unfit, unworthy of him. He’s the First minister of France, for God’s sake; he can’t lower himself to the tricks of a whore, he doesn’t have to, I’ll fight those thirty men, let them come.

 

_Let them come._

 

The soles of my boots scratch the floor, and all I hear is my own blood, pumping in my veins, spreading a boiling rage I still can’t put a name on, please, Armand, tell him how despicable this is. Tell him we’ll deal with this with honor and swords, tell him.

 

 

 

But I'll have to face it, he won't

He still doesn't move, slowly rubbing his hands together, lifting a sad, bitter face to his reflection in the window frame. All he says is something like, “I'm not sure I can do that anymore,” with only the ghost of his voice.

 

God, the dark lines of headache are back around his eyes. I didn't miss those.

Just as I think of walking closer to him, and find a way to touch his hand, this bloody Abbot, looking like he just wishes to lighten the mood, laughs and prompts with a wink:

 

-“Your Eminence, with all due respect, seducing your way up to your goal is not something you are a stranger to. You once _entranced_ Marie de Medici deeply enough to squeeze your red robes out of her, you _can_ worm out one name out of a Duchess!”

 

_Worthless sack of dirt!_

 

He doesn't finish his next laugh. I roared a long string of insults, grabbing the man by the collar and dragging him backwards, his shoes scraping the floor. I don't stop until his back bangs against a bookshelf, dozens of volumes falling down around us in a hammering crash.

 

And I squeeze his throat until he turns blue, devouring his gasps with a delight I'm not sure I recognize.

 

-“ **Jean!** ” Armand calls, panicked.

 

I don't let go. I can't. There's a thirst in me that won't be satisfied until that man passes out or dies.

 

-“Captain, release him.” He asks once more, remembering to stop using my name, but laying both his hands on my arm. They are soft, they are warm, they are trembling.

 

Oh, God, he's trembling again. I didn't miss that.

 

He speaks softly, agony and shame crushing his words:

 

-“Let him go, Captain. He is right. I _am_ Marie de Medici's creature.”

 

I release the Abbot and he falls at our feet in a pathetic, coughing heap. I am tempted to kick him, but Armand helps him up and has him sit in a reading chair near the window. While the old man tries to catch his breath, absurdly gesturing that he's fine, Richelieu whispers in a dull voice:

 

-“It is not God who made me a Cardinal, it is her. I did seduce her. But in my defense, if she hadn't resented me for becoming more important to the King than herself, and forced him to choose between the two of us, maybe she would still be at the Court, and maybe we would still be friends.”

 

_Friends?_

 

I shoot him a furious glance. _It was much more than friends, you cunning snake._  
He meets my stare and he bites his lip, lowering his eyes.

 

My fists are clenched so tight my nails are cutting through my palms. I feel furious, insanely mad, and I want to hurt him, but I'm only hurting myself, God, I need to calm down. He was twenty. He needed power and influence, and that's the way you get it when you're the Bishop of the smallest town in France.

 

This has nothing to do with any kind of feeling, he told me once, and I know, I know, but I’m sorry, Armand, the thought of the Medici touching your skin, glory of France or not, drive me _crazy_.

 

I breathe deeply, and watch the Abbott apologize profusely to him, throwing terrified glances at me over his shoulder. I don't say a word, but keep a cold, warning stare on him. Armand shakes his hand twice to reassure him, tells him he'll be there at the banquet.

 

-“I'll just retire for a few hours in my rooms, if you don't mind, Father Antoine. I'll meet you in the dining room tonight.”

 

The Abbot nods and bows on his chair, his nonchalance forgotten. Good.

 

_Remember what kind of man you work for._

 

Richelieu steps towards the door in poised, yet painful moves. Before I unlock and open it for him, he freezes, and throws bitterly over his shoulder:

 

-“Make sure she's seated next to me at the table.”

 

And with that, we leave the Abbot to his labored panting.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Three: Other plans.**

 

 

 

 

I close the door of our rooms, and after a quick, mechanical inspection, I lock it. The place is warm, an open fire kept alive for us. The walls are covered in rich tapestries, and the furniture, though it has seen the Dark Ages and more, is still in perfect state. The bed is imposing and deep, built in an alcove facing the hearth.

 

We don't speak. There's either too much, or nothing to say.

 

He's pale and trembling as he lets himself fall on the edge of the bed, a living river of red silk flowing from his legs to the delicate tiles of the floor. I stand at the door, waiting for a clue, because frankly I have no idea if he wants me close to him or out of his sight.

 

He doesn't give me a thing. He sighs in restrained sorrow, and stands up to walk to his luggage. He pulls out his heavy brocade formal robes, the ones I've only seen once or twice. They're overbearing, heavy with embroidery and lace, but they look bloody _impressive_ on him. They're darker, straighter than his usual attire, and if it was anywhere near possible, they do make him taller.

 

He disposes them on the bed, and starts unbuttoning his own.

 

He usually lets me do it.

I guess he doesn't want me close.

 

Bitten by rejection, I hiss through clenched teeth:

-“Wanting to look your _best_ , are you?”

 

He jumps out of the sad reverie he was caught in, and something foul bursts into his eyes.

 

-“ **Of course I am!** ” he growls, striding to me with a violence that has me backing up against the door. “Need I remind you that if I don't, I am giving the Medici and her allies all the time they need to organize our _death_!”

 

He stops, his face one inch from mine, and I would find those eyes truly dreadful, if I couldn't see those acidic tears shining around their edges. He speaks, slowly, hammering his words, a hand on my chest holding me against the door with a strength I wouldn't have believed from his thin frame, well, if I didn't know him so well.

 

-“I need those four names reduced to one _tonight_ , so I can send word to Paris to have that name called elsewhere by something very tempting and have his every room searched upside down. If I find one piece of solid evidence, _one_ , all I have to do is show it to the King, have them all _hanged_ by the next sunrise!”

 

His breath comes short again, and I see his eyes lose their focus. His voice is still strong, but his legs are about to give up, I know him now. I gently place my hands under his arms, because it's only a matter of time.

 

-“I need to be quicker than they'll be.” He pants. “It's a race, nothing more. If I can uncover them before they find us and send those men, I win. If I don't, Jean, though you claimed not to be my knight, you might have a dragon to slay, after all.”

 

He tries a bitter laugh, fails, a nasty cough crushing his breath, and that's it. His knees let go of him, and he sinks into me, held up by my own arms. I think I was angry, but that was before the warmth of his skin. Before his head on my chest.

 

Now all I can do, all I can think of, is closing my eyes and burying my nose in his silver hair.

_Hah, I'll never learn._

 

His bloodless hands grip my sleeves and his voice, steady and firm even though it comes from somewhere against the leather of my doublet, softly whispers:

 

-“I do apologize, beloved, I shouldn’t have brought you into this. I should have measured the danger before I tricked the King into commandeering you, but you know, as soon as you're involved, I am a weak, pathetic _fool_. I've been blinded by the thought of having you by my side, and now, look at what I’ve done. I know you would fight those thirty men. I know you would fight a hundred. And if anyone in France actually has a chance, it’s you. But I can’t stand the risk, I can’t stand the thought of…”

 

He doesn't finish, because he's coughing again, but I guess I know what he meant, and there's a radiant warmth spreading in my chest. Pride, love, rage, determination. That man makes me feel _everything_.

 

The cough is bad, and if he doesn't rest, he won't even make it out of this room. Alright.

I lift him up into my arms; Lord, he weights nothing. He wants to protest. I tell him to shut it.

 

Strangely, he does.

 

 

 

I lay him down on the bed, and search around for some water. I find better, in a delicate, chiseled bottle of eau-de-vie, from the Abbey orchards. I uncork it and smell the contents.

 

It's my turn to cough. _God, this stuff is good._

 

I find a glass in a low cupboard, pour a generous serving, and force it into his hands. He drinks up, chokes, gasps, hisses that I must be trying to kill him. I shrug and say that it has become fashionable in the country those times around. He scolds, but smiles, and some timid hue of pink slowly comes back to his cheeks. Ah. More like it.

 

I watch him intently, searching for signs of recovery in the balance of his head, the slight moves of his hands. And I notice the unbuttoned robes, hanging loose around his shoulders. I notice the thin white skin of his chest, and that point at the base of his neck where I can see his pulse drumming.

 

I grit my teeth on the impulse to devour that skin, because he still looks anguished, lines of worry painted harsh around his eyes by fear and candlelight. His stare remains distant, calculating, as if trying to remember something long forgotten, and he's drinking much faster than he's used to.

 

God, he's making himself _drunk_.

 

I almost forgot. He has a woman to seduce tonight.

 

A surge of blinding rage burns my guts in seconds, and every cell of my body refuses the thought of it. Don’t do that, let me fight them instead. Don’t do that, you’re _mine_. I grip the sheets in tight fists, my breaths coming in short puffs.

 

For God's sake I need to calm down. It’s either that or thirty men with guns, what are my odds, truly? I need to calm down, he wants that name to save my skin as well as his.

 

 

I need to calm down.

 

 

Will he use _that_ voice? Will he smile _that_ way?

Will he tilt his head to the side, his pink tongue darting out upon his lips?

Will he kiss her hands and lead her here, to lay her down on this very bed?

Will he cry out the same, eyes closed and shivering?

 

 

No. _Mine._

 

 

Calm the hell down.

 

-“Jean.”

 

I look up. He knows. He always knows everything. His eyes, a bit too shiny now perhaps as the glass lays empty in his hands, are reading my face and there's no fooling them.

 

-“It needs to be done.” He says.

 

-“I know.”

 

-“I don't want you to feel hurt.”

 

I shrug, grumble something about having seen worse, but I am an idiot, I have no idea if I have, I've never bloody _loved_ anyone before.

 

I look away, fed up with my own torment, trying to find something to do with myself, but his delicate hand cups my face and turns it back to him. His cheeks are definitely pink, his eyes genuinely alive now. God, he is gorgeous, I cannot breathe.

 

_Mine._

 

-“Is there any way I could make this bearable to you?” he asks.

 

And my skin answers long before my brain does. I shiver, burning, my eyes feeding on the fragile crook of his neck. I want to mark it mine, I want him to go to that wench with the smell of my skin glued into his. I don't want to leave her anything I haven't touched and licked and kissed twice before, I want him to sit next to her _wincing in pain_ with the traces of what I've done to him.

 

-“Yes, there is.” I breathe.

 

And I kiss his parted lips, rough, starved, resolute.

 

 

He understands, whimpers a little, and melts into me, his quick hands working upon my clothes. I don't help him, I don't need to, he has always been quite skilled. He's drunk, but that doesn't make him slower. If anything, that only makes him _needier_. The coat and weapons fall on the floor with a loud thump, and while he busies himself with the leather, he offers his throat, but that won’t be enough for long.

 

At some point, I kick off my boots and there’s only his robes left alive between or bare skins. I finish unbuttoning them, with a respect I still can’t get rid of, and he sinks into the sheets, arching up his hips, his wide frozen eyes fixed upon mine, expecting _everything_.

 

I keep watching him, lost in the subtle waves of his skin, stretched like velvet upon his bony frame, and I must take too long to lie down on him, because he lifts one leg high enough to rub his knee against my hard, aching cock, smiling in pride as I groan.

 

His robes opened, I dive down to bite harshly at the soft flesh of his sides, and he yelps in surprise. I kiss and lick methodically, spending time upon the fragile skin around the insides of his thighs, ascending, waiting, starting again, until I hear him breathe my name in scattered pleas. He grabs one of my hands, guides it to his groin where I can feel his raging need, but though I leave my hand there, I don’t respond.

 

His confused, intoxicated stare searches me then, and he must have hoped for a smile he doesn’t find, because he frowns, releasing my hand, biting his lips.

 

He’s still spread in his open robes, as I often want him, the blood red silk around our skins whispering tales of blasphemy and sin. He joins his slender hands together on his lips, slyly licks his fingers, and I moan because I know where this is going, and so does my twitching cock, but I have other plans.

 

I slap his hands away from this devilish mouth of his, and he gasps in pain, looking up towards me with a glint rising in his eyes that is nothing else but fear.

 

Well, I must look foul enough.

Good.

 

I need him _obedient._

 

I lift one corner of his red robes; give a short pull and spit:

-“Get rid of them.”

 

I grab his black formal ones on the bed next to us then, and spread them open in a hash wave on my arm. Looking back at him and nodding towards them, I add:

 

-“I want you on _these_.”

 

He opens his mouth to argue, maybe, but my hand on his shaft gives him a few long, deep, cadenced strokes, and the only sound he makes is a gasping cry. He's beyond arguing and he knows it. He twists and crawls to the side until he's laying on those dark robes, the priceless velvet making a sharp contrast to the white skin of his limbs. His cheeks are blushed and he's panting, his eyes a bit lost, his hands defeated. He stares at me, intently, desperately waiting for that smile I don't give him. He's mad with lust, stunned, defenseless.

 

Good.

 

I roughly grab his left arm and flip him over in one move, pressing him face-down on his own robes.

 

 _Now_ I can lay down on him.

 

He struggles a bit, but my weight is pinning him down like nothing else could.

 

-“ _Jean!_ ” he calls, but I have other plans.

 

My cock is there, leaking, aligned between his buttocks, and I'm loosing my mind. I do intend to resist that perfect friction, but who am I fooling. The bed creaks in seconds as my thrusts send shockwaves up to his chest. God, his skin is smoother than silk, I'm sliding fast, far too easy, my guts turning into fire, no, calm down, I said I had plans.

 

I grunt loud enough to snap me out of my trance, and stop moving. He's heaving in short gasps, disoriented, positively terrified, and I realize this may be the first time he can't look at me while I take him.

 

I want to reassure him, I swear I do.

 

But to have him squirming and dazzled beneath me drives me _insane_.

 

I give him one tender kiss on his distressed temple, that's all. After that, I forcefully stick two fingers into his mouth.

 

-“ **Lick.** ” I rasp.

 

He obeys without a sound.

 

Good.

 

When my fingers are soaked enough, I slide them between the two of us and use them to work him open. It doesn't take long, because even though my other hand is still on the back of his neck, viciously pinning him on the black velvet, he still trusts me. He stills wants me.

 

He's still my Armand.

 

I know how to angle myself, I know where, and I know when. His gasps turn to moans soon enough, and his hips try to move backwards into my hand, even if they can hardly move, crushed by the weight of my own. His eyes are dark, blurry and dazed, his hands gripping his robes, his shoulders pliant and docile.

 

I pull out my fingers and thrust myself in. I didn't warn him. He screams, and I press a hand against his mouth to muffle the sound. I start moving, God, he's tighter when he's stressed. I lean down and bite on his shoulder, hard, marking him like an animal would. He cries out into my hand, and those may be tears I see dripping from his eyes. Maybe.

 

I know the rhythm, and the patterns to make him beg. I know him by heart, by fingers, by everything. I can _play_ him like a harp. I hit that spot inside of him with clockwork consistency, and I feel his tongue sliding against my palm on his mouth. I move steadily, driving him one moment away from orgasm, and I stop dead, leaving him whimpering and shaking beneath me for a while, his cries keen, but not enough.

 

I thrust again, merciless, pounding him back into that fevered state just before the fall, and his cries get higher, sharper, the way I want them. Still not enough. I freeze once more. He might be crying. Maybe.

 

I do that three, four times, and at some point I think I'm breaking him. His pleasure almost turned into torture, his begging unstitched, desperate.

 

I move one last time, and I don't stop. I won't even need to touch him, he's already too far gone, I know.

 

His whole body, passive and malleable, lets himself be crushed again and again upon the velvet with soft surrender. He cries out in those high-pitched notes I'd die for, and one of his hands flies up to mine, pulling it away from his mouth, only to swallow two fingers deep.

 

I moan, loudly, and I have to bite his shoulder again. I sink my teeth in his tender skin, and it's so thin, so frail, he might be bleeding.

 

He doesn't care. His eyes are closed tight, his back arched against me, and God, he twitches inside, clenching around me, ripping my breath apart. He screams around my fingers, shuddering in long, dreadful spasms, and God, it lasts for a lifetime, and I follow in blinding, burning light.

 

I'm the first to get a grip on what's left of my mind, still inside him, out of breath, laying limply on his back. I slowly realize I might be smothering him, and I gently pull out, sliding on his side with a wince. I want to ease my hand out of his, but he's still wheezing, eyes squeezed shut, and I have to unknot his rigid fingers off my hand one by one.

 

I look at his shoulders, they're covered in bite marks, one of them glued with spit and blood, oh _God, what have I done?_

 

-“Armand?”

 

He opens his eyes, painfully, and turns to me in a haze, looking like he's still wondering if that was really me.

 

Hell, I'm not sure _I_ know.

 

I let out a strangled sob, and roll him over until I can hold him tight against my heart.

-“Armand, I'm sorry, I don't know what took over me, I wanted to... I...”

 

He stirs a bit in my arms, his back cracking in two places, but he returns my embrace eventually. Once I've checked him all over with my fingertips for pain or injuries, I kiss his forehead twice, apologize some more in scattered words, and hurriedly get up to fetch a wet cloth left for us next to a basin of lukewarm water. I walk back to him, cleaning the blood from his shoulder, the rest from his stomach. Cursing at myself, I check his robes. They're soiled of course, but fortunately only on the inside, bloody _stupid fool_ I am.

 

I carefully wipe most of the stains away, throwing the cloth back into the basin with a furious hiss afterwards. I miss. I groan. Sitting back next to him, I bury my face into my hands, God, I'm such a waste of space.

 

After a while, I hear something soft, delicate, almost a song, coming from the bed.

He's laughing.

 

I turn to him and search his eyes as he elegantly sits up, his body pliant and relaxed, obviously sated and still a bit high from pleasure, and he's _laughing_.

 

Damn, it's true.

He's still drunk.

 

 

-“I didn't know you could do _that_ too.” He gently tells me, almost purring, snugging up close to me, blessing me with warmth, and sighing into my neck.

-“Neither did I.” I stammer.

-“Do you have more tricks of this kind in your hat, Captain Tréville?”

-“I bloody well hope not.”

 

He laughs again, gently shaking against me. I like him drunk. He's much more forgiving than I am.

 

 

But the bliss has to end, as he asks for one more kiss before he gets up with a moan of pain to get dressed again. This time I jump up to help him, not speaking a word until his formal robes are neatly arranged on him in a perfect, almost surreal figure. I find his hat, put some order into his hair, brush his shoulders, step back. He's dashing.

 

Lord, he's _magnificent_.

 

I smile and open my mouth to speak some form of praise, then I remember why he's so beautiful, and hurt cuts my sentence in shreds. I lower my head, and I'm cold, all of a sudden. I search for my clothes and put them on in sour silence. His eyes follow me, and he knows, he always does.

 

-“My shoulder will hurt for days, do you know that?” he asks joyfully.

 

I almost apologize again, then I understand what he wants to tell me and I give him that smile after all.

 

-“And I'm not speaking about my backside, thank you very much,” he adds.

 

More smiling. A bit of blushing too I'm afraid.

 

It's going to be alright. He's still Armand.

 

_He'll still be my Armand._

 

 

 

We spend some more time in preparation, including his insisting for one more glass of eau-de-vie. I fear it might be too much, since he barely drinks anything, but I can't refuse him the liquid courage.

 

At some point we're facing each other, my hand on the door, and I only stop because he seems to remember something. He goes back to his trunk, pulls out a flat, ornate wooden case and opens it in a swift move. Inside, I see a pair of dark red gloves.

 

He never wears them. He says he can't write with them, and he does write all the time to be honest.

He walks back to me, and places them into my hands. Then he joins his own, and lifts them up to my face, a heartbreaking touch of innocence in his wide eyes:

 

-“Would you kiss them, beloved?” he whispers.

 

I comply with delight, twice, and he sighs happily.

Then he asks me to put the gloves on him, sealing my kisses in red silk, and God, I could almost cry. I bury my face in his neck one last time.

 

-“For France.” He breathes gently.

 

-“For France.” I echo.

 

With that, we both leave.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Part Four: As Early Morning Dies**

 

 

 

I had hoped she'd be ugly. Too old, or too fat, or with those black teeth, spoiled by sugar.

I had hoped she would laugh too loud, limp, squint.

 

She's bloody _exquisite_.

 

I'm not sitting at the table, nor should I be, as I must be walking around watching out for poison and daggers.

All I can see are glimpses of them as I walk by, and I never hear one word of what they say.

 

All I can do is grit my teeth at her plump, harmonious figure, adorned by a luxurious, yet respectable pine green dress. Her hair is a delicate hue of chestnut, her eyes a vibrant tribute to honey brown. She's wearing too many jewels, but I heard that's what fashion dictates. She talks in high-pitched, birdlike songs, and the way her fine manners seem to fit naturally at his side makes me sick.

 

Because Armand, of course, _of course_ , is majestic.

 

I can see the effects of the eau-de-vie in the subtle slowing of his moves, but I'm sure I'm the only one who can tell the difference. He smiles like he could dine at God's table, leaning towards her barely enough for her to feel his warmth, never touching, just floating around, God, the bastard knows what to do, he remembered after all.

 

I grunt, turn my back, stride around the dining hall, watch everyone with bitter focus, and come back to stand ten yards behind them.

 

There's music, _secular_ music being played by a small chamber orchestra in the center of the u-shaped table, and it makes this very official banquet sound like a damn Palace Ball. He's talking in short sentences, discretely pointing at people or plates, and she laughs, the way women laugh when their laughing is not the point, throat offered, eyes glowing.

 

She's attractive. I want her _dead._

 

This banquet lasts for a goddamn lifetime. I still feel my body tingling from what we've done, and I know he must feel the same. I know his shoulder must hurt like hell, bruises growing under those stiff, heavy robes. I still taste his skin on my tongue; I still hear his cries in my head.

 

But he's handing her a glass of wine, their fingers touch, and she bloody melts into it.  
I know that's exactly why he's wearing gloves, but forgive me, Armand, my heart is burning all the same.

 

At some point of my walking around, I cross Lagrasse’s path, and he nudges me in the sides, nodding towards the Cardinal.

 

-“Looks like His Eminence is combining business with pleasure,” he sneers.

 

_Oh, if only you knew._

 

I frown, playing the role of that man who didn't notice, and give him my best careless shrug.

 

-“Wouldn't we all?” I grin.

 

Lagrasse has an appreciating stare for the Duchess, and nods fervently, whistling a very indelicate note under his breath. I snap my fingers at him, pointing at the room in front of us.

 

-“Now move,” I say. “The rest is not our business.”

 

He clicks his heels and starts another round.

 

As the night stretches on Bonnevaux, candles being lit up like botched stars, the banquet eventually comes to an end, and though a few conversations carry on in front of empty plates and bottles of wine, many of the guests start to leave.

 

Armand whispers something into her ear, and she blushes. God, what did he say?

 

_Do I want to know?_

 

They get up and leave, the Abbot watching them making their way to the gardens with a disgusting smile I'd gladly cut off his face with a knife. Jussac throws a questioning glance at me, and I raise my hands. I'm on it. I send Lagrasse back on the rampart walk, and I follow Armand and the Duchess. I keep my ten yard’s distance, but it bloody won't be one inch further.

 

He guides her towards a pond, right next to the orchard little Geneviève has been running through, long, so long ago. The place is perfect, painted in blue by nighttime, bursting with perfumes and the soft ruffling of reed. The sky is clear, the moon bright enough, and I almost wish it was darker, because from where I stand behind a large cherry tree, I see _everything_.

 

She's the one talking, and I still don't get a single word of it, but Armand is holding her hands, devouring her speech as if it was his water and air. She looks around, just to let him gaze at her neck some more, I know those moves, they're as old as time.

 

It's the ancient, restless comedy of mankind.

 

God, woman, spit out that damn name already, you have seen enough, you have touched enough.

 

I'm boiling in frustration, a whirling rage trapped in my chest, and if he feels the same, he doesn't let anything show.

She spins around, laughing, knowing her dress will do the work, and suddenly stumbles and falls with a small cry of fake surprise, straight into his arms, oh _for God's sake_.

 

He's holding her. He's whispering something, and he's holding her, Lord, I didn't know my chest could hurt that much, without an arrow, without a sword. I can barely breathe, this is insane.

They talk some more, their faces inches apart, and he knows what to do. His stance is tall, strong, but vulnerable enough not to scare away. He's impressive, but not frightening. He is power, but not brutal force.

 

God, he's good.

 

I have a fleeting thought of sympathy for Marie de Medici, twenty years ago, who fell in the same strong, yet delicate arms, lulled by the perfect charm of his voice. Moved by the passion in his eyes. Captivated by the heights of his ambition.

 

He was twenty, and being a bishop wasn't anywhere near enough.

 

Now he's forty-five and he's just as resolute.

 

Only now, he's got a lifetime of carving the borders of France with blood and lies behind him.

What are her chances?

 

No bigger than those of a Medici.

 

No bigger than mine once were, on the seawall of La Rochelle.

 

Oh, spit it out. _Spit it out_ , so I wake up from this nightmare.

 

 

 

Well, she talks, for sure a lot, but Armand doesn't let go of her. He tilts his head to the side, slightly, and I can't see his eyes, but I know they're half closed, I could almost see their glow. It's happening, and my hand is gripping my sword so hard it could break.

 

He's cupping her face with his silken gloves and kisses her mouth, hungry, domineering.

I wish I could look away, I just can't. His hands grabbing her waist, her fingers in his silver hair.

 

He pulls her against him, trailing wet kisses along her neck, and she sighs something to the night sky, why does the wind bring me that, and not anything else, I do not know, maybe I am meant to suffer. “Armand,” she sighed, and my heart burns to dust.

 

He breathes something in her ear, and she nods briefly. He holds her waist as if she was about to faint, and well, maybe she is. They walk away to the stairs leading to the guest rooms, no.

 

 

_A little more carnal persuasion might be required._

 

No.

 

No, let them come, those thirty men, let them come, I'll kill them all, please Armand, _please_...

 

Not our bed.

 

 

 

 

But they climb the stairs, they push that door. I follow, ten yards, no more, and I try to remember the way he licked my fingertips. I'm cold, all of a sudden, I'm cold and I'm helpless.

 

For France, he said.

For France, I answered.

 

They're already halfway through a narrow, deserted corridor, and I'm still behind them in the ancient spiraling stairway when she moans something I actually almost hear. It's about the rooms being too far, and she lets herself fall into a small alcove between two ancient marble pillars, pulling him down with her.

 

I realize I'm much less than ten yards away and I step back to remain hidden in the stairs.

 

I hear him laugh, that very sweet, but very fake laugh I know he always has in Court. There's some silk ruffling and I grip my own thigh hard enough to bruise. It's either that, or punching the wall.

 

I don't want to look. Hearing is enough. Hearing is too much.

God what kind of pain is this, without a bullet, without a sword, how can it _hurt_ so bad?

 

Why couldn't you speak that name, you wretched _slut._

 

A woman betrays a secret every time she bloody breathes, what's taking you so long?

 

 

I hear some more fabric being crumpled, he mutters a few praises about her hair, her lips, and never a battlefield has seen me _bleed_ so much.

After a while, she starts moaning aloud, and he whispers something imperative. The moaning goes on, muffled. The ruffle of fabric becomes rhythmic, somehow, and her cries follow the pattern. How the hell does he do that, they hadn't time to undress, his robes themselves take ages to...

 

Oh, I don't want to look.

 

She starts chanting his name, don't you _dare_ speak it, you filthy whore, you're unworthy of it.

 

Mine.

 

_He's mine._

 

 

I rest the back of my head against the cold stone of the stairwell, eyes squeezed shut, burning tears threatening. Maybe I'm meant to suffer. He breathes something again, and her cries get higher. Whatever he's doing, he's good. He's bloody _good_.

Does it have to hurt so bad, why has he got to go that far?

 

The rest is a blur, truly, but eventually she cries out harder, and he hisses a bit. Then it's over.

 

I only hear her panting, a few soft whispers of fabric, no more.

 

 

 

Silence stretches into the night, and I'm as good as dead. I've never fought that kind of war. I'm a mess, I know I am, but I said I could do it. He let me do those things to him so I bloody could. I’ve got to find a way to ignore that pain, it will lead me nowhere. For France, he said.

 

For France.  
I stand my ground. I wait.

I don’t wait for long. The chattering starts again. Mostly hers. I don't get much of it, but it looks like she’s making plans to meet him again in Paris. Hah. Good luck with that.

 

I don't listen, too busy trying to bury my rage in a dark place inside of me. I don't listen, but at some point, I distinctly hear him cough, and whisper a short sentence, in a very quiet voice. Very quiet to her, for sure, but I know him, I know that tense, restrained speech, and it almost screams anguish into my ears.

 

Genuine, burning _anguish_.

 

God, what happened?

_Did she say it?_

 

I move to peek into the corridor, but he mutters something else, on a quick, apologetic tone, and his footsteps are approaching fast. She calls him, distressed, but he doesn't turn back. He's coming right at me, and here he is, stepping down the stairs.

 

He's white as a sheet.

_She did say it._

 

 

He grabs my arm in silence and drags me downstairs with him. He knew I’ve been there all along.

 

He always knows, after all.

 

He doesn't say a word, but he's shaking, and there's a nasty wheeze in the bottom of his breath.

 

We walk back to our rooms by another route through the silent dormitories and once the door is slammed and locked behind us, he hisses a long string of blasphemy, which he absolutely _never does_ , and pulls out his silken gloves in pure rage to throw them in the open fire. One of them was soaked in... Oh Lord, _that's_ how he was doing it.

 

I feel nauseous, but I swallow my disgust, because his wheezes are growing pretty frightening, and though he starts walking to his luggage, he doesn’t go far, eyes blurred, swaying backwards.

 

-“Armand!”

 

Too late. He hits the hard tiled floor with a soft whimper.

 

I rush at his side. He’s barely conscious, and by the sweat on his bow and the shudders I feel along his back, he has some kind of fever.

 

-“Armand, what happened?”

 

He lifts one hand, begging for time as he focuses on breathing, making that horrible sound of torn paper every time he exhales. I press a hand against his chest and I feel his lungs rumbling, even through the thick robes. God, how long has he been sick?

 

I give him a moment, listening to his painful struggle, looking out distractedly through the window. The sky is already colored grey by the slow rising of dawn. I’m exhausted and he’s no better. I sigh, overwhelmed, and carry him on the bed for the second time tonight.

This sort of thing happened way too much lately.

 

Oh, Lord, if the plots weren't enough, now his own health is spiraling down.

 

If he could just lie down and...

 

But the stubborn snake refuses to rest, panicked, and fumbles through the sheets to stand, oh I’m sorry, Armand, but my patience has run dry a few goddamn _hours_ ago.

I pin him down with an arm, shouting in his face: “ **For God’s sake, don’t move**!”

 

He freezes, gazing up at me in dizzy wonderment. In his tired eyes, I see flashes of anger, despair, and mostly terror. God, what happened?

 

-“She told you, didn't she?” I ask.

 

He nods.

 _Good_ , this nightmare hasn’t been for nothing.

 

-“Who is it?”

 

He takes three, four more wheezing breaths, and once he sounds like he can hold enough air in his lungs to speak, he whispers:

 

-“Cinq-Mars. They’re writing to Cinq-Mars.”

 

 

He doesn’t tell me more. A wheeze breaks into a vicious cough, stealing what was left of his breath. I wince, his sharp pain at every cough echoing through my own mind like a strange, second-hand agony. He went too far, he drank too much, he pushed his limits for too long. He's on the brink of passing out, but still insists upon taking his robes off. “Burn them”, he says, but I just throw them in a trunk. They're worth an army, they can be _washed_. He needs to rest, but his still wants his hands and face to be cleaned twice, and at the end of it all, I am begging him to sleep.

 

It takes him almost one more hour of stunned, nonsensical whispers, burning in shivers into my arms, until his wild clockwork mind shuts down at last. When I finally feel him grow limp, I let go of a breath I didn't know I was holding.

 

I still hold him for one hour more, I don't mind, my night is ruined anyways.

 

I have the morning light for company, over the roof tiles of Bonnevaux. I have the last dance of the dying fire, I have his quiet breath against my neck.

I can wait a little bit to know why this name upset him so much. I can wait for decisions, measures, messages and plans. I can wait, he's there after all.

 

_He's still my Armand._

 

 

 

I can wait, bathing in the peace of being too tired for any further worry.

 

I'll have the morning light, and even when I won't, well, he'll wake up and speak my name, in those first blissful seconds before he remembers what needs to be done.

 

 

 

He'll speak my name and smile.

 

 

 

 

As early morning dies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is (at last, I know) another, somewhat darker chapter. 
> 
> The peaceful journey is slowly turning into a pursuit, and it won't get any safer. 
> 
>  
> 
> I wanted to write about the differences between two ways of winning a war in the 17th Century.  
> The Treville way, and the Richelieu way. 
> 
> Treville is a master in gun and sword fight, and around the time this story is written, he already has a brilliant career behind him. He spent his whole life in a world where everything is measured in terms of honour, strenght, strategy. This is how he earned his rank, his prestige, his grade : attacking cities, fighting soldiers, protecting people or places. His way of thinking can be considered plain, manichean, but this is how military men saw the world in those days. 
> 
> Richelieu, stripped from his future as a soldier, had to gain influence by the ways of the Court. You have to imagine a time when the King was considered as God-given, absolute. He could make and unmake a life in one day. The game was to be, and remain in his good favors, or you could end up ruined, if not dead. At the very beginning, being a small nameless bishop, Richelieu had nothing but his incredible talent for speech to rely on. He couldn't reach the King directly, but fate placed him withinh reach of the Queen mother. Already getting old, and massively fat, Marie de Medici was moved by the passionnate flatteries Richelieu covered her with. This may sound weird by now, but verbose, intricate praise was almost the only way of adressing anyone with rank in the 17th century. 
> 
> Some historians think Richelieu just used Medici to get to the King.  
> Others think he sincerely liked her, and a few even assumed they've been lovers for a while. 
> 
>  
> 
> If you want to know more about this, you can read this amazingly complete article online :  
> https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/La_Journ%C3%A9e_des_Dupes
> 
> Or, again, ask me for book references.
> 
>  
> 
> In this story, Richelieu is reminded of how exactly he climbed up the ladder, and asked to do the trick again.  
> Only this time, virtuous-knight Treville is watching, and it hurts Richelieu to show him how low he can sink to win a war.  
> It's not pretty, but it's genuinely one of the means he used to become who he was, and what we admire him for. 
> 
>  
> 
> Another note upon his health, because I got many messages of very worried readers (you're all the cutest thing).  
> As some of you know, the Cinq-Mars conspiration is supposed to happen at the end of Richelieu's life (he died the next year).  
> I choose to erase that fact, because I need him moving and walking, not carried around in a litter as he was in 1642.  
> But I've made a compromise, and showed the first signs of the tuberculosis that will later kill him.  
>  
> 
> Please comment if you have time, telle me what you think. This work is useless if it can't be shared !


	5. FONTFROIDE - Languedoc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the wonderful Bean, for the fastest, most brilliant betaread ever provided.

 

 

 

 

 

**Part One : Cinq-Mars**

 

 

 

  
He did.

 

He spoke my name, a few moments before noon.  
  
-“Jean?”

 

I woke up tangled into him on the bed, in my uniform, my whole body sore, my mind foggy, when did I fall asleep?

 

I remembered something foul, I had no idea what, so I held him close on pure instinct.

 

He looked as confused as I was, but at least in better shape, his skin warm under his white nightshirt. He was frowning in worry, looking around for signs of the night before. He found the bottle and smiled. He found his dark robes and froze. He had an anguished look at his right hand, hissed like a cat, and I remembered too. The Duchess.

 

_Foul was a small word._

 

His body jerked towards the basin, and I grabbed his arms to stop him.

 

 

-“It's alright, Armand, I cleaned you twice with soap, don't you remember?”

 

He shook his head, let out a distressed cry, and still looked like he needed to wash. I let him go, well, if that could help. He walked to the water, his steps supple and graceful, how the hell did he manage that?

 

I wasn't sure I could even sit up.

 

While he cleaned his skin a few more useless times, I saw in his focused eyes his mind setting himself in motion, sorting memories, feelings, information. The gears had started to turn once more, and our bliss was short-lived.

 

 

-“I need to write to Paris,” He said.

 

-“I suppose so.” I groaned, trying to unfold my own tingling legs.

 

 

I was distractedly massaging the spot in my left side where my gun left a bruise as I slept on it, cursing myself in mild shame, when a loud bang startled me.

Armand had punched the chest of drawers the basin was laid upon, hard enough to leave a mark, his eyes fixed on the troubled water, and if a look could break a neck, it would have been this one

 

His face was strained with the same rage and anxiety I had seen the night before, when he spoke that name. Cinq-Mars.

 

 

_Cinq-Mars._

 

I must have seen the man a thousand times, as he's been following the King like a shadow for at least two years now, always among the hordes of liars Louis keeps around his boots. But to be honest, I hardly can picture his face. It's like a painting in your house, you see it everyday, you know the basics, but you couldn't in a hundred years redraw it in detail.

 

How could that bloody piece of furniture be the leader of all this?

 

I frowned, stepping close to Armand and trying to ease the strain on his shoulders with my hands, though there wasn't much hope about this. He was positively overstrung. He kept staring into the water, eyes cold and calculating, his brilliant mind already, I guessed, ten steps ahead of me.

 

Well,  _I_  still needed to understand.

 

 

-“Who is this Cinq-Mars?” I asked.

 

 

He blinked once or twice, stopping the machine for a while to realise he hadn't told me a thing. He had a sad, bitter chuckle and laid a hand over mine, still resting on his shoulder.

 

-“I told you I was Marie de Medici's creature, yes?” He whispered.

 

-“You did.”

 

-“Well, Henri D'Effiat Cinq-Mars is mine.”

 

I started to laugh, but he didn't look like he was joking _at all_.

 

-“That feathery  **fop**?” I sneered in disbelief. “What did that useless peacock get from you ?”

 

-“ _Everything,_ ” Armand stated. “I picked him up from the mud of the nameless country town he was born in, washed the dirt out of his face, taught him to speak his own name without an accent, gave him decent clothes and a cheap sword, carried him to the Louvres and pushed him in front of the King.”

 

-“Looks like a lot of effort for a whelp. Why him?”

 

-“Because his father told me he was the most handsome moron in France, and he was right.”

 

 

I opened my mouth for a reply I couldn't find, so I shut it. I had no idea where the hell this was going, and I needed to do something with myself to make up for it.

 

As his skin didn't feel so warm anymore, and I really didn't want to see this fever come back, I briefly kissed the back of his neck and went for his robes, the red ones, of course.

 

I thought he was too deep in his thoughts to notice, but he did, and had a quick smile. As I handed him the river of red silk, I must have looked completely lost, because he took the time to explain a bit more,  _thank you_.

 

 

-“Contrary to the well-spread legends, the King has influences other than mine around him. I can make myself heard by him in many places, but not  _everywhere_. There are rooms and hours where even I am dismissed.”

 

-“ _Hardly!_ ” I protested. “He wants you at his side the whole bloody day long. What does the King do without you around exactly? Sleep, piss, and sex. That's all.”

 

 

-“Precisely.”

 

 

That's all he said.

 

 

 

He started to put his red robes on, neatly arranging them around his thin waist, and waited in silence for me to catch his drift. It took a few seconds, truly, because his reasoning may be the most vicious maze I've ever known. But I'm not completely stupid, and I think all color must have drained from my face.

 

-“You pushed a  _lover_  in the King's  _bed_  so he could  **spy**   **on him for you**?”

 

 

He said nothing, but he averted his eyes a little bit.

 

He  _did_.

 

 

The idea itself looked utterly vile to me, but before I could spit my disgust at his methods, I gasped something stupid like “Wait, the King likes...?”, and he rolled his eyes, scornfully:

 

-“Oh, come on, Jean, you can't be  _that_  blind. Everybody knows, even the Queen.”

 

God knows I didn't want another fight, but if I didn't wish to spend half of my life shouting in anger, well maybe I shouldn't have chosen  _this man_.

 

-“ **Blind?**  I'm the Captain of his Musketeers, my duty is to fight for him! I don't care who the King wants into his  _pants_! Why the hell would I?”

 

I expected another carefully balanced string of sarcasm, but Armand, against all odds, smiled again, and it chased away the clouds in his eyes for a moment. He grabbed my hands, pulled me close and kissed my forehead, whispering:

 

 

-“I know, beloved. That's not the way you  _think_. That's why you are so precious to me.”

 

My anger, once more, crumbled to dust in one second. I swore to myself I wouldn't let this man get away with absolutely  _everything_  all the time, but who exactly was I fooling.

 

 

As he finished getting dressed, I slowly helped with the luggage, hiding those dark robes and pulling out ink and paper. Dealing in silence with the new slice of absurdity I had been served.

 

First, the fact that I had spent all my life crawling under the crushing weight of my shame, because of those longings I had for other men. I've always thought it to be the sin of lowlifes, the perversion of lesser existences.

 

And on this fine morning he told me the King himself was just the same, and nobody, absolutely no one seemed to mind at all.

 

Hah. This was bloody  _laughable_.

 

Second, Hell, I never knew Armand went _that far._ Selecting, creating, forging a man according to the King's sexual predilections and send him to gobble the few last, intimate secrets Louis could have. God, that was  _twisted_ , even to Richelieu's standards.

 

I didn't know if I was sickened or terrified.

 

 

Third, if that fop owed Richelieu everything, including a place of … influence in the King's own sheets, why would he gather the Cardinal's enemies from the Louvres down to the borders of Spain and try and have him killed?

 

-“I suppose, by the very same reasoning as mine,” He said when I asked him. “I pushed him up to where he is because I wanted to be the King's only influence. Well, now that he has the King properly enticed, thanks to my detailed instructions, he surely thinks  _he_  could be lover, friend and first minister too.”

 

He spoke with a frozen, distant calm, his eyes calculating once more. He was angered, he was anguished, for sure, but he bloody didn't look  _surprised_ at all.

 

Well, plots and murders have always been his morning tea, and he must have known for long that intrigues do work both ways. I shivered once more at the filthy, dreadful world he lives in. God knows I wouldn't have lasted one bloody year in his place.

 

He was gathering a few books around the sheet of paper I prepared for him, opening them on specific pages, and I knew he coded his messages using this literature. He was about to write his agents in Paris to lure Cinq-Mars out of the Louvres and search his place.

 

Well, his place was right next to the King's apartments, in one of the busiest, most heavily guarded parts of the Palace. This would be no easy task. He needed men able to hide, and able to fight if they couldn't hide. At least two trusted, skilled fighters, if not three.

 

-“Wait.” I said.

 

 

He looked at me over his shoulder, his quill suspended in the air.

 

 

-“We can't risk failure.” I claimed. “Don't send your men. I'll send mine.”

 

He frowned and opened his mouth for, I was sure, a very intense complaint about my unjust questioning of his men's abilities, but I raised my hand to cut it short.

 

-“You know they're better trained than yours if things turn bad. Let me write the message, and send Lagrasse straight to the Garrison with it.”

 

He hissed, sighed, and shot me a spiteful stare, but he knew I was right. This was my area more than his, and he must have felt it in his bones.

 

 

-“Let me guess” he still sneered; “you're suggesting those four inseparable  _brats_  again.”

 

-“Those are full-grown men, and the best among my Musketeers, thank you. But yes.”

 

 

He narrowed his eyes, and I saw the gears turning, the clockwork marching on. In a few breaths, he weighted their odds, calculated their possibilities, tied every loose end. He stood very still, his stare unfocused, while my plan passed through the spider web of his brilliant mind.

 

I suppose that's why I felt a rush of raw pride when he quietly nodded, and silently handed me the quill.

 

We only briefly discussed about the false message from the King that would have Cinq-Mars rush out of his apartments. We chose together a small, sturdy Abbey in Guyenne where my men would join us as reinforcements as soon as their job in Paris is done. The King's guards would no doubt handle the arrest of the Dukes by themselves.

 

He let me write the rest of the instructions without further argument. I read them aloud once finished, and he approved with one more nod.

 

I signed, and before I put down the quill, he took it from my and wrote his own name right next to mine.

 

It felt strange, the mark of us  _plotting_  together.

 

But for a moment, to my eyes, our names side by side looked almost beautiful.

 

 

He folded and sealed the paper, hiding it in his robes.

 

-“Call Lagrasse” he told me, and I ran to the door.

 

 

By the way I spoke my instructions, and the route Armand gave him, a wise compromise between speed and safety, Lagrasse knew this might be the mission of his life. He took the letter with care, hiding it in his doublet, against his chest.

 

Armand gave him enough money to pay for a good horse and trusty relay inns. He offered Lagrasse a lot more, for his services, but the man straight-out refused.

 

-“Musketeers are not the only ones to find retribution in their faith and their duty alone.” He humbly said, sparing a knowing glance for me.

 

Armand, visibly touched, grabbed the man's hand and whispered a blessing.

 

Lagrasse, with that steadfast glint I only see in the eyes of promising men, turned his heels and ran off.

 

 

As we remained there, standing in the room, I saw him shiver, his confidence crumbling, his deft intellect measuring the thin silken rope our lives hung upon. He paled, and though he bit his lips hard enough to keep a decent stance, I sensed his fear deep into my guts.

 

I went to him, grabbed his face, made him look into my eyes so he could see the conviction there, and whispered slowly:

 

-“He will succeed. He'll be twice as fast as we were, and he'll be in Paris in three days. He'll find Aramis and give him the letter. My men will set the plan in motion on the same very night. If there is something to be found, they will find it. And they'll run straight to the King. Louis will send a whole battalion south to arrest those pigs, and my men will meet us in Guyenne in eight days at most. Eight days, Armand. I swear I'll keep you safe until then.”

 

I won't lie, I didn't feel as much certainty as I spoke, but the point was to comfort him. It looked like I did, as his face brightened up with emotion, his eyes wet, his breath shaken. I saw respect, praise, and sheer adoration, so intense my cheeks burned. He kissed me then, raw and yearning, and I swore to the sunlight of Dauphiné that I'd die a hundred times before anyone touches his silver hair.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Part Two : The Monk's Doves**

 

 

 

What I said, I must have repeated four times since we left the Abbey.

 

 

We've been traveling on erratic roads, deep into the lands of Languedoc. I wished he'd have chosen the lands of Provence instead, as there are more trustworthy Abbeys and Lords there, and we could rest a bit. But of course, Armand refused, sending us right into the lands of some other man wanting him dead.

 

I only agreed to this madness in exchange for his promise to stop sending word in advance.

He complied without a word.

 

We arrived unannounced in every monastery and cloister since we left Bonnevaux. To the shocked and panicked monks, he told clever lies about how mishaps on the road diverted a very official journey to their lands. It made sense, but it wouldn't do so eternally.

 

After all, it didn't have to. It was only a matter of days.

 

The number of places he could trust were rare and scattered, and some nights, we had to hide the carriage into thick woods and sleep there.

 

 

As Puivert had no experience in swords or guns, and would be absolutely helpless in an ambush, Armand reluctantly left him in Bonnevaux with an order to enjoy a week off and a thick pouch of coins. In meager compensation, he finally got to choose four horses, fast and frisky stallions this time, since the journey looked more and more like a bloody race anyways.

 

 

Jussac took the reins of the carriage and I followed around on his horse to take a more flexible watch. Something under my skin missed the safe bubble of velvet where I spent so much time with Armand, but, damn, I'd been whining for days because I didn't feel useful, well,  _now I was._

 

In less than twelve hours, I was back in the heated, alert state of mind my forty years of war carved into me.  Sleep schedules reduced to a minimum, eating just enough to keep moving, ready to fight every time of the day. My parameter checks became a constant, permanent thing. More than once, I drew my sword for oblivious local patrols, harmless packs of pilgrims, or the wind hissing into trees. I slowly began to act like a wild dog, sniffing the air, growling at strangers.

 

Impressed, Armand showed himself to be much more docile than the usual. He went where I told him to, rested when I told him to, and patiently put up with every detour, delay and inconvenience my precautions forced on him.

 

The journey had gone from a prestige visit to a runaway of fugitives, and Richelieu was definitely out of his territory. A coward he'll never be, and he still met his informants at each and every stage, sometimes in the carriage itself, gathering further evidence, names, lists, numbers. He had instructions prepared for all of them and his will to be obeyed remained intact. His ingenious mind was as efficient as ever. Even more so, heightened by pressure. His trunks grew heavy with stolen letters and confessions, and what couldn't be written was carefully stored in his head. He mastered his art so well it was terrifying.

 

I caught myself thinking that if this plot to kill him was one of the most frightful of his life, it would certainly be the last.

 

He wouldn't leave anyone alive to try once more.

 

 

But you can't have that devilish clockwork mind run so fast without the crushing torture of seeing every possible danger with merciless lucidity.

 

He has spent those last days spinning between resolved bravery and  _sheer panic_.

 

 

One warm morning in the gardens of a nameless cloister near Saint Etienne, as I repeated once more than Lagrasse and my men were not going to fail us, and find evidence to show to the King, he discretely grabbed my coat and hissed:

 

-“Last time I asked the King to choose between someone he holds dear and myself, I was lucky enough to be considered indispensable. Who says I'll have the same luck now that Louis has grown self-confident, and most of my work is already done?”

 

I laughed, dismissing his doubts with a wave of my hands, but truth be told, my stomach sank.

The King was indeed a grown man, and Armand did everything to have him enticed by Cinq-Mars. The thought of Louis letting Richelieu die for a  _lover_  made me sick, but after all, as King of divine right as he might be, he's still human.

 

 

Most of the time, though, my words of blind faith in the King and my men were enough to appease his worries, and he nodded faintly, gathering his strength.

 

Sometimes, I had to order him to stop writing, stop reading, stop thinking, eat something and try to sleep, which he always did, though with mitigated success.

 

Twice, he spiraled down so fast I had to grab his arm, push him somewhere safe, and kiss the skin of his neck until he couldn't think about anything else.

 

 

One night, as a cold, nasty drizzle kept on falling on the lands, his fever came back.

 

I realized with horror that this cursed thing never left him. It was just waiting for him to be exhausted enough to grab him by the throat again. His lungs were seriously damaged, and if it could have been handled in quieter circumstances, our chaotic running through half of the country didn't help.

 

We didn't move much that day, because Armand insisted upon sending word forward to Fontfroide at least a few hours in advance, since his informant there had to gather very essential papers before we arrive. Jussac volunteered, and as I couldn't drive the carriage _and_  keep watch, we decided he'd take the fastest horse and go on his own while we waited, hidden inside an abandoned barn south of Mende.

 

This was a twelve hours trip to Fontfroide and back, ten if Jussac was as skilled as he said he was.

 

I spent those hours on watch around the barn, drenched to the bone by a rain that couldn't be seen.

 

Armand barely left the carriage, as I ordered him to. This bloody weather had already done enough damage to his lungs. I still couldn't help his mind from oscillating between calculation and despair, his body from sinking into disease. I checked on him once every hour for a few words, maybe a kiss, only to observe, helpless, his health degrading fast.

 

By nightfall, this wretched rain hadn't stopped once, and though Jussac returned successful, Richelieu was weak and burning.

 

We could only light up a small wood fire, as anything bigger would have been seen from the nearest village. I had some wine heated up, and warm rocks placed under his seat, but it did nothing to ease the fever.

 

Jussac and I were both on watch outside. Armand was supposed to be sleeping, but we heard his whimpers of pain and knew there was no rest for him. Two hours of this, and the dreadful cough followed, this horrible sound like torn paper making us flinch in sympathy.

 

After a while, he sounded like he could barely breathe, and I couldn't stand it anymore. I opened the carriage door to check on him. God, he was in such a _state_. He was almost delirious, shaking, an ugly shade of blue painted upon his lips. I softly asked if he needed anything, and before I could close the door or draw the curtains, he threw himself into my arms, gripping my sleeves, burying his face in the crook of my neck, calling out my name in a way that couldn't be mistaken.

 

Looking over his shoulder, I saw of course that Jussac had witnessed everything.

 

I held his gaze. He said nothing. I tried to remember a prayer, please, don't spit on the floor, don't wince in disgust, please, comrade, we have a war to fight together. 

  
_Don't make me shoot a bullet in your head._

 

I held his gaze, as my hand softly stroked Armand's back, he said nothing.

 

 

And at the end, Lord,  _he smiled_.

 

He smiled to me, stood to attention, turned his back on us and went on with his watch.

 

 

I closed my eyes and breathed, kissing Armand's hair with relief, and holding him until he slept.

 

 

Richelieu looks better now, as a clement sun is grazing the moving carriage, but I still move my horse to the windows from time to time to keep an eye on him. I know, now, how sickness still awaits inside his chest.

 

 

He got up with a smile this morning, as I was waking Jussac up from his short rest upon the old barn floor, wrapped in his own cloak near the dying fire. Armand didn't look like he remembered anything, and Jussac didn't say a word, not even to me. I handed Richelieu a cup of his herbal tea I had kept warm, and he even ate properly, thank God, insisting upon us doing the same.

 

-“Eat everything we have left”, he said, pushing the food boxes in front of us. “We'll be in Fontfroide mid-afternoon, the safest place in Languedoc. Thanks to you Jussac, my friend will be waiting for us.”

 

  
Wait, that's not how he usually talks about his informants.

 

 

-“A friend?” I asked.

 

 

He nodded behind the rim of his cup, a quiet glow in his pale eyes.

 

-“Surely you've seen him around the palace once or twice. He's a Capuchin. Rather tall, older than me, grey hair, grey beard.”

 

I nodded. I saw him once, and it had been a sight to remember.

 

It was on a freezing day of September last year. I saw him walking down the main stairs of the Louvres, scrawny, stern, ascetic, in dark grey wool and rugged sandals, absorbed by a small bible.

 

All around, whole packs of Princes, noble men, and officers bowed down low on his passage. Hell, I've even seen a bishop bow down to him, and I wondered why.

 

He ignored them completely, passed in front of me without a glance and walked out.

 

 

I knew the man was among Richelieu's counselors. I supposed, by then, for matters of the Church.

 

I didn't know he was a friend.

 

I didn't know Armand had  _friends_.

 

 

-“Father Joseph” I recalled.

 

He smiled. He looked genuinely happy to see that man, and I've been feeling a sharp twist of curiosity ever since.

 

 

He notices my horse trotting by the window and pauses his writing to look up at me. He gestures that he's alright, something warm in his eyes. I nod, God, I wish I could touch him.

 

 

I let the horse fall back behind the carriage.

 

Frontfroide has been a point in the horizon for hours, but we're finally descending the last hill towards the Abbey. She's a beauty. Radiant beneath the southern sunlight, in austere, but elegant rows of roman buildings, she shines on among the oaks and the bay trees. I can already spot the large gardens, placed in geometric perfection around the narrow church. Not a sound is heard, apart from the birds and crickets. It sounds like Gascony.

 

 

Sounds like home.

 

 

I feel tired, all of a sudden, and I spur my horse to snap me out of it. We're in bloody Languedoc. The Duke of these lands wants us dead. I start riding in circles around the carriage, watching everything, and I don't stop until we're at the gates.

 

I saw nothing strange but the truth is, in these deep, luxuriant valleys, you could hide a whole army. I keep moving in distrust, looking out for any movement in the trees. I see none, the Abbey lands being much more peaceful than I, crushed by the warmest hours of the day.

 

The gates open, and we ride in.

 

We pass three gates and a drawbridge, closing in a bang behind us, before the carriage stops in a huge court of honor. I grit my teeth. It's a good way to prevent anyone else from entering, and a bloody good way to prevent any escape too.

 

A dozen monks are awaiting us, smiling, under the shadows of the magnificent archways. Flowers grow everywhere, herbs and spices fill the air. In the middle of the court, a huge wooden aviary looks like it's been dragged here for the occasion. Inside, a few white doves purr in unison.

 

It's heaven screamed into my ears, but I won't be fooled.

 

I won't rest until he's safe.

 

Among the brothers, I see who could only be father Joseph, his black robes making a strict contrast with the other monk's light browns. His hands are joined and his head is low, every limb of his body poised in a perfect clerical pose, but I know it's fake, I know, because he very much looks like he's praying, but he's staring right at me.

 

 

Where did I see this fake stance before?

 

 

Oh. Of course.

 

 

 

I dismount, and after one last sweeping gaze, I open the carriage door for Armand. He steps out, spares one of his warm, caressing stares for me, and quietly walks towards the brothers, spreading his arms in delight to greet them.

 

 

**Boom!**

 

 

 

 

White smoke, and the smell of powder.

 

_Armand!_

 

 

I yell.

 

“ _ **Everyone down!**_ **”**

 

 

I spot the red robes in the smoke. He's still standing.

 

I run, grab his shoulder, check him for injuries,  _God, he's alright._

 

I pull him behind my back and point my gun right at the smoke.

 

 

Only to see five terrified monks running towards the aviary, oh Lord.

 

They surely wanted the roof of the birdcage to pop off once the Cardinal was in the yard, letting the birds fly as a salute, but the powder dosage was obviously wrong. Half of the structure is blown off, the birds nothing more than a messy pulp of feathers and blood, scattered on the floor.

 

One of them, its head roughly torn off, is glued at the feet of Armand's robes, his wings still twitching.

 

Armand grips my arm in anguish, letting out a choked cry.

 

Yes, you're right.

 

_Couldn't be a worse omen if it tried._

 

 

The Abbot, Father Dominic as I heard, is running towards us in despair, white as a sheet.

 

-“Your Eminence, oh, please forgive us, this is an horrible accident! It was meant to be such a beautiful thing, but we only had six hours to prepare, and none of us know anything about powder. Oh, Lord above, forgive us!”

 

 

The other monks, quickly pick up the dead birds, cleaning the mess in shocked, mortified silence. One of them is crying, whispering he's been breeding those birds just for a day like this. He gathers the doves in his robes with raw tenderness, sobbing in despair, and this monk, more than all the rest, convinces me this whole thing was, in fact, an accident.

 

I sheathe my gun.

 

 

But Armand, stunned, refuses to let go of my arm.

 

 

The need to hold him tight is enough to twist my guts, but I gently unclench his fingers from my sleeve, grabbing the hem of his robes to shake the dead bird away. I kick the small body until dirt has covered most of the blood.

 

I wish I could do the same with the grim auspice it all makes. I can't.

 

 

When I look up, Father Joseph is right next to me, his dark eyes piercing holes into mine. This man looks like five centuries of law and discipline, and his stare has the maniacal resolve I've only seen in Richelieu.   
  
I clench my fists, holding up.  _If you think I'll lower my eyes, man, think again._

 

He waits for me to look away for two more seconds, and as I don't, he gives me a quick bow, then turns towards Armand.

 

He doesn't greet him, he doesn't touch him, as if there wasn't any use to those things.

 

-“I advised those fools against these useless theatrics, but they're as stubborn as they are stupid,” He stated. “Come inside.”

 

 

And, dismissing Abbot and monks alike with exasperated waves of his hands, without a glance for anyone, he strides back inside. Pale, out of breath, Armand still takes a moment to reassure father Dominic, saying something forgiving about his poor brothers being punished enough by their fear and the loss of the birds. He politely thanks the Abbot, promising he'll be among them for supper, and with one final look at me that holds too many things to be readable, he softly follows the Capuchin.

 

 

A bit dazed, maybe, I stay in the courtyard for a while, gathering my thoughts. Jussac, looking just as shaken as I am, comes to stand next to me, awaiting orders. Since the horses are being taken care of by the monks, I send him to carry the trunks into whatever rooms we’ve been assigned.

 

-“Don’t let yourself be distracted while you handle those things,” I tell him with a nod towards the carriage. “They contain more secrets than all the confessionals of Notre Dame.”

 

He laughs, good-humored, and somehow I envy him.

 

I can’t breathe that worry out of my chest.

 

Sighing, I take a look around. That Abbey is as huge as Clairvaux. God, it will take hours. Well, needs must. With a low, exhausted hiss, I start my safety check.

 

 

*** 

 

 

 

**Part Three** **: Secret doors.**

 

 

The place is  _filled_ with secret doors. I’m used to them now; I’ve been walking in and out one of them for eighteen months. I know where to look, I know how to pick their locks. I fetch a torch and count them all, running through narrow corridors and hidden stairs to see where they lead to. Some of them could be escape routes. Good.

 

I knew, I always  _knew_ those perimeter checks were a bloody good thing.

 

Once more, I walk in every room, search barrels and closets, barging into dormitories, knocking on walls to check them for hollows. From the crypt up to the roof. From the rose gardens to the latrine. I was right, it takes  _hours_. By the end of it, I'm leaning against a wall in a small chapel near the gardens, panting, and a few monks are considering me rude, if not completely insane.

 

Well, as far as I'm concerned, I feel  _old_. God, I’m tired.

 

I rub my hands upon my face, groaning.

 

I need to find Jussac.

 

I’ll send him to watch over the supper, and I'll sit the hell down for one hour. That's what I'll do.

 

There’s this secret passage into the ancient wall behind me, straight to the guest rooms. It’ll save me time.

 

I pick up a small hook out of my pocket, make a quick work of the old copper lock, and slide into a damp tunnel. It’s quite short, and straight ahead, so I don’t need the torch. I keep my fingers upon the wall, and follow the touch. Two turns left, one turn right. Now, if I remember correctly, one flight of stairs and...

 

-“Get in and lock the door.”

 

I freeze.

 

That was Father Joseph’s voice, so close to me he could be right on my heels.

 

 

I take five steps backwards, my hands grazing the clammy walls. I feel the ancient stone change into a wooden door three yards on the left. Damn, I haven’t seen this one on my first check. I slide my fingertips all around the surface, searching for the lock. Right in the middle of it, at eye level, I find something better: a small sliding panel. Some secret doors have one in the Louvres, allowing a look inside to check if it's safe to open. I bite my lips. Maybe I shouldn't. I want to know what this priest is made of, as the memory of his gaze still burns into my guts, but I could also leave Armand some privacy from time to time.

 

-“You look dreadful.” I hear the Capuchin hiss.

 

-”Thank you  _very much._ ”

 

Armand's voice, right behind the panel, drained and irritated, has me frowning in worry.

 

He coughs, I'm sure I hear a wheeze, and that's all it takes. I slowly slide the panel with my fingertips.

 

After all, I'm  _supposed_  to look after him.

 

 

I only slide the panel halfway through, it's quite enough. I see pretty much everything of a small study, with countless books spread on the floor, upon the mantelpiece, the window sills. A messy desk, covered in papers, a few ancient chairs, and high walls ornate with masterpieces of painting. A glorious golden light passes through the stained glass windows, making the blood red silk glow, as if on fire.

 

Joseph's right, Armand is in ruins. His pale face is tense and wary, his eyes circled in red. His fingers rub his temple in slow, elegant circles, and though I can't see it, I bet they're shaking.

 

The priest eyes him for a while, sighs, and walks to the hearth, where I can't see him. He soon comes back with a warm cup, and Armand smiles as he joins his hands around it. By the way he smells the thing and closes his eyes in relief, that's his herbs, no doubt.

 

I nod to myself. Father Joseph may not be the cold-blooded lizard I thought he was.

 

He gives Armand some time to drink, circling around him in repressed urgency, then asks, impatient.

 

-“What have you got?”

 

-“Cinq-Mars.”

 

-“What, Cinq-Mars?”

 

-“The man they're writing reports to in Paris. It's D'Effiat.”

 

The priest freezes, his eyes open wide, as Richelieu quietly sips his tea, his gaze distant. Then Joseph's face contorts in pure rage, and he bangs his fist upon his desk, hah, I've seen that before too.

 

-“I told you this man didn't have a  **shred**  of morality in him!” He shouts, furious.

 

Armand shrugs, obviously unimpressed.

 

-“If he had, I doubt he would have accepted our plan in the first place.”

 

 

 _Our_  plan. So the priest was in on this filthy scheme.

 

 

He may neither be as  _discipline-and-law_ as I thought, it seems.

 

Joseph throws his hands up in the air, as if to call God as witness. He leans over his desk and searches through his documents, throwing some on the floor, picking up a few. As he sorts through his papers, their dialogue dances between them in steady, rhythmic moves:

 

-“Have you sent word to the Louvres?”

 

-“Of course.”

 

-“Who? Cellier or Debouche?”

 

-“None of them. Treville wrote to his own men.”

 

A pause.

 

The priest frowns, sweeping an unreadable stare up and down the Cardinal.

 

-“You let Treville write the orders.” He speaks, suspicious. This isn't a question.

 

Armand sighs, rolling his eyes, and raises a reassuring hand.

 

-“We both signed.”

 

-“Do you trust those men?”

 

Another pause, a bit longer. I see Richelieu's face quite clearly, and after a passing wave of vague distress, there's mostly defiance in his eyes as he quietly states:

 

-“I trust whoever he trusts.”

 

Joseph's eyes narrow some more, but he doesn't reply.

 

He starts rummaging through his papers again, unfolding maps, opening books.

 

-“The Dukes have hired thirty mercenaries in Spain...” He mumbles as he reads.

 

-“I know. Antoine told me they're posted in Guyenne”

 

-“Not anymore they're not.” The priest hisses, looking at him over his shoulder. “And Antoine is an  _idiot_. By sending the Duke of Dauphiné an invitation to a banquet mentioning you by name one day before your arrival, he gave him enough time to move those men. The day you left Bonnevaux, you were wise enough to take the route to Languedoc. If you had taken the road to the safer lands Provence as the Duke thought you would, you'd be dead by now. Those thirty men were waiting for you two miles away from the Abbey gates. They missed you by a  _thread_.”

 

_Oh, for God's sake._

 

I squeeze my eyes shut, terrified by the mistake I almost made.

 

I could punch myself.

 

Armand's cheeks turn white, and he lets himself fall into a chair, still graceful, but visibly stricken.

 

Joseph notices and frowns, pacing in one more circle around him, wrapping him into his piercing gaze.

 

-“Why didn't he attack directly into the Abbey?” Richelieu whispers, rubbing his temple again. “Thirty men were quite enough to raid that small place.”

 

-“Because thirty spanish mercenaries can make quite a mess indeed, and  _his wife Anne_  was in the Abbey. I suppose there was some good in that stupid move from Antoine. You got the name of Cinq-Mars from her didn't you?”

 

Armand winces in disgust, and even from where I am I see that shudder shaking him from head to toe as he nods, distraught. The priest stops dead in his steps, inspecting him with careful eyes. He seems to understand, and I clench my fists. I thought I was the only one to read him so well.

 

Joseph looks like he's trying to find his words, his fingertips tapping against the cover of his books as he passes by his desk. After a long, wretched silence, he whispers in a gentle voice I didn't think he could have:

 

-“What you did was to save your own life, and the future of France.”

 

Armand passes a hand upon his tired eyes; his burning shame still visible, but he quickly nods again. The Capuchin sighs, looking around, obviously searching for something to comfort him.

 

After awhile he smiles furtively, and goes back to his papers. He gathers a few dozens of them in one large cardboard folder, and places it on Richelieu's lap.

 

-“I started gathering everything as soon as Jussac arrived with your note.” He proudly declares. “I barely had enough time. Some of them were still hidden in a crypt in Narbonne. But I've got them all. Letters from that witch Chevreuse, enough to have her exiled, if you don't wish to have her dead. Receipts from the Marquis de Frontenailles for the gold the Habsburgs keep stuffing him with. One of them signed in his own hand, with his seal still intact. I spent two weeks in Vienna last month to get you this one. I trust you have all the rest, concerning the Dukes?”

 

 

 

Richelieu's eyes lighten up in a devious glint as he looks down at the folder, and he distractedly lays down his cup on the floor. His deft fingers open the cardboard and scroll through the papers, a smug grin coming back to his lips.

 

-“All the rest and more.” He whispers. “De Thou, and the Prince of Sedan are done too. All I need is one piece of evidence to bring Cinq-Mars down, and I'll have  _all_ their heads rolling at my feet/”

 

-“Except D'Orleans and the Medici.” The priest point out.

 

Armand makes an exasperated sound.

 

-“For God's sake, Joseph; even I can't make the King execute his own brother and mother!”

 

The Capuchin shrugs, a short pout of regret passing upon his face.

 

-“Such a pity.” He muses as he picks up the empty cup and walks back to the hearth.

 

Armand rolls his eyes, but his smile is bright and lively as the priest comes back with more tea.

 

-“Now, listen to me carefully,” the grey man says. “They know you're gathering evidence in every land you run through. They're out of time and they're searching for you like rabid dogs. The only thing that's stopping them from cutting you to shreds is that they need to know where you are, and they need you to stay put long enough to send their mercenaries. Now, this plan of yours is working just fine as long as you keep moving. You can't stay here more than one day. Tomorrow night, you must be on your way.”

 

 

Richelieu's shoulders drop in exhaustion, he sighs heavily, and he looks like he could beg for one more day of rest, but he's brave, he's always been. He nods again.

 

-“I'll take countryside roads through Guyenne and head back North.” he huffs.

 

Joseph approves wordlessly, going back to his desk, unfolding maps again.

 

Quiet silence stretches between them for a while, and I slowly let go of a breath I was holding for ages.

 

The priest is almost as terrifying as Armand can be, and it bloody well looks like there's two Richelieu’s in the same room. The efficiency is perfect, but the coldness is dreadful.

 

Joseph didn't call his name once, he didn't even touch his sleeve, Lord, his headaches are killing him,  _couldn't you at least pat his bloody back?_

 

I've seen more cheerful  _friends_.

 

 

Armand, as far as he's concerned, doesn't seem to expect anything of that sort, and yet he looks genuinely reassured by Joseph's presence. He quietly drinks his tea, watching the priest fumble through his messy documents with a fond smirk. There are thirty Spanish bears sniffing our scent less than fifty miles away, and those two just discussed what could be nothing else but a hurried escape plan, but in this study, for a while, the air is peaceful.

 

At some point, Armand lays down his cup and stands up to leave, and I slide the panel back into place to do the same, but Joseph's voice, stern and merciless once more, has both of us freezing:

 

-“There's something else we need to talk about.”

 

I move the panel again.

 

Armand has turned his back on him, facing me without seeing me, and I watch him close his eyes in raw _fear_.

 

Slowly, very slowly, he turns around to look at the priest. Joseph walks to a window and peeks outside, gesturing Richelieu to sit back with stern authority. The red robes carefully slide closer to him, but no more.

 

-“Yes?” Armand asks, and God, he's so bloody  _unsure_.

 

-“We need to talk about  _him_.” The priest says, still gazing at the gardens.   
  
My heart turns to lead.

 

_It's me._

 

I know it's me, I feel it in my guts.

 

Armand must feel the same, but he tilts his head to the side, feigning ignorance with skill and practice:

 

-“Him?”

 

Joseph hisses and nods towards the window.

 

-“Don't play the fool. That Gasçon soldier you chose to travel with. Du Peyrer Treville.”

 

Silence. My palms are sweating.

 

The priest spins around and growls:

 

-“How long have you been lovers?”

 

 

_God, no._

 

 

 

I inhale sharply.

 

Squeeze my eyes shut.

 

Lean against the door.

 

_Please, no._

 

Jussac I can handle, but this dreadful  _monk_...

 

I want to leave, I want to run, but Armand's reply, steady and firm, gives me the strength to stay and watch.

 

-“What on earth makes you think that?” He shrugs with a dismissive wave of his hand.

 

-“I said,  **don't play the fool with me!** ” Joseph shouts, pointing at the window in threatening fury. “I've seen the way he ran to you when this useless aviary exploded, the way you looked at him, and grabbed his arm, don't you forget I've known you since you were a child!”

 

Armand speaks no more, but his intense, frozen stare stands his ground.

 

-“The mistresses I could tolerate,” the Capuchin goes on, throwing his hands in the air, “because people actually  _expect_  you to keep them. But he's a  **man** , Christ almighty! Have you any idea of the  **sin**  you are...”

 

-“Don't you  _dare_  speak of  _sin_.”

 

This voice of his rips my breath in pieces. He sounded very quiet, very slow, but the repressed  _rage_  boiling in his words had them rumbling like a storm. Armand steps closer, tall and stiff in red whispers, and as fierce and righteous as Joseph might be, he takes half a step back.

 

-“For the King and for the Country”, Richelieu hammers, looming over the grey man until his back hits the window plane; “I have ordered fathers and husbands to be hanged while I sat and watched. For the borders of France, I have starved cities to death, counting carts filled with dead bodies as they passed me by. For duty and for law, I have burned protestants at the stake, women and children alike, holding their stare until their eyes turned liquid from the heat. I have lied more than I have spoken, I have betrayed more than I could trust. My robes are glued in blood and tears, the stench of them stuck to my skin forevermore, and  **you talk about sin?** ”

 

God, he's  _furious_.

 

I don't think I've ever seen him this way.

 

There is an insane strength radiating from his slender figure, there are forty years of self-made hell rising up in his voice, marching to war.

 

Joseph looks like he's nailed on the spot, and I'm no better.

 

Armand lays the fingertips of his left hand upon the priest's chest. Without a push, without a nudge, just a gentle graze, and it's as good as punching his face.

 

 

-“Don't you dare compare this man to those wretches I paid for. The  _State_  made me keep those. Even you,  _Father_ , made a list of suitable names for me to choose within. They have all betrayed me at the end, and I had most of them killed. Don't you ever speak his name and theirs in the same sentence again.”

 

 

Joseph gulps noisily, and I realize I'm biting my thumb by the taste of blood upon my tongue.

 

-“The State didn't choose Jean for me. Duty and Law have nothing to do with him. France didn't make me look his way.  _I did_. He may be the only decision I made for myself in all my wretched life, and I swear to you and to God above that I won’t. Let. Go.”

 

He hissed the last words into his face, enraged, ardent.

 

I can barely breathe, my heart bursting,  _my Armand_.

 

Then, he blinks a few times, looking down at his own hand upon the black robes, and gasps slightly. He looks lost, his eyes watering, and he wheezes once or twice. A hand pressed against his mouth, because he knows the cough is following, he steps back in distress and spins around, striding to the door, out of my sight.

 

 

All I can see is the grey priest, his breath short, shaking his head and reaching out to him:

 

-“Wait !”

 

Armand doesn't come back into view, but I don't hear him move anymore. I just hear it, that cursed cough, his lungs tearing themselves in spasms a few times. Joseph eyes him for a long time, his frown made of worry and hesitation. Then, he goes to a small shelf next to the desk, opens it and pulls out a wooden box. He turns around, pushes a few books and papers out of a large stool, places the box on it instead, slides the stool near the chair Armand has been in, and lifts the lid.

 

It's a bloody box of  _biscuits_.

 

-“I brought them back from Metz last week. Your favorites if I remember correctly.”

 

Still no move from Armand. The grey man looks desperate, and I can't help a smile of sympathy.

 

God knows how many times I've played the same game.

 

-“Please, sit back down. Can we at least  _talk_  about it?”

 

A few more seconds of complete silence, and then, slowly, the red robes come sliding back to the chair, and my smile broadens. Now I see where the word  _friend_ came from.

 

Richelieu leans over the box suspiciously, his pink tongue licking his lips, and he picks up one biscuit with a half-hearted huff.

 

-“What do you want to know?” he mutters before he bites into it.

 

As it happens, Joseph grabs his desk chair, pulls it close until it faces Armand's and sits down.

He folds his arms upon his chest, but all anger has slipped away from his face, and he looks damn well  _tamed_.

 

-“Why him? ” he asks; and my eyes open wide.

 

 

_Bloody priest, you have no idea how I've always wanted to know._

 

 

Armand seems to be lost in thought for a moment, as he often does when he must choose his words carefully. He rubs his eyes, sighs a little, and has a delicate, though imprecise wave of his hand.

 

-“He is… everything. Everything I'm not. Everything I wish I was. Everything I wanted to be, before I had to become  _this._ ” He spits, gesturing at his red robes.

 

Joseph opens his mouth, to protest no doubt, but Richelieu cuts him short with a sharp shake of his head.

 

-“There can't be any other, man or woman. I need  _him_. For his heart or for his sword, I need him. Because his voice eases the pain of my headaches, because his presence can relieve this misery I spend my life in. Because of the strength in his hands or the way his eyes narrow when he smiles, I do not care, I need him. He's brave, he's honest and he's loyal, he is all the virtues I can't even contemplate, and if by any chance such a man can need me back, or simply tolerate the slightest touch of my skin, well I may not be the monstrous  _beast_  they all think I am.”

 

-“You know they have  **no idea**  who you are!” Joseph shouts, fervent.

 

Richelieu lets out some kind of bitter laugh averts his eyes.

 

-“Let's not go that way again shall we?” He sneers.

 

And with that, silence falls between them.

 

My hands are shaking a little, fighting the need to hold him. I have to clench my teeth or I'll just call out his name, tell him how bloody  _sacred_  he is to me,  _God, how I love him._

 

Joseph seems to ponder for a while, taking the time to listen to the way Armand's words echo and die against the study walls, and then, slowly, shakes his head in disbelief.

 

-“Forty years” he sighs; “and I've never guessed. For God's sake, you let me  _castigate_  the King because of those inclinations a hundred times in your office, and...”

 

-“What, you think I  _knew_?” Armand hisses, leaning forward in insistence. “When exactly did I have the time to address the issue? There's been nothing but carrying this country in my arms since the easy tavern whores from thirty years ago to last winter's state mistress. I've never looked at one man that way before, and I haven't even wondered if I'd like to. I had no bloody idea until I saw him drenched in his own blood because of me!”

 

-“In la Rochelle? They shot an arrow into his chest, you have nothing to do with that.”

 

-“I  _designed_  that siege! I made it! I should have known this reckless fool would be the first to charge head on, I should have forced the King to make him to stay in Paris. The sight of him, Joseph, this gaping wound right next to his heart. So much blood, oh, dear Lord. I thought he could have died on those cursed ramparts, and I would have been left to rot in those red robes without a chance to be good to him  _once._ It broke the heart I forgot I ever had.”

 

I have to press my hands against the door, swallowing the urge to barge in and kiss him until he faints. I'm out of breath, my chest in agony, I didn't know a heart could do that.

 

Nobody ever told me loving someone was such a torture.

 

Father Joseph unfolds his arms, leaning forward too, his elbows on his knees, his hands joined. He has a long, gauging stare for Richelieu, and it's like the more he knows, the more he needs to reconsider the _weight_ of the problem at hand.

 

-“You're in love with that man,” He states, amazed.

 

-“Madly,” Armand laughs.

 

-“You're in trouble.”

 

-“I know.”

 

 

Joseph stares up at the heavens in despair, stand up in a whirl of black fabric and grumbles:

 

-“You still could have made the  _effort_  to fall for a woman.”

 

-“Find me a woman with those virtues and we'll talk,” Richelieu snaps back in defiance.

 

Joseph chuckles, maybe for the first time today, and I find this bloody reassuring.

 

-“Not in this world, you're right. Still, you need to be absolutely careful. I noticed today because I know you, but some more of this nonsense in the courtyard earlier, and someone else might.”

 

He nods, contrite, but he joins his hands on his lap as he argues:

 

-“Joseph, it's been more than one year and no one in Paris knows. I swear to you he's more than able to keep a secret but right now, he's tired. We've been running in circles through enemy lands for days. He's giving all he's got to keep me alive, and trust me, that's a great deal, I know.”

 

-“He's still a Gasçon. Those men wear their feelings upon their sleeves.”

 

-“He'd die rather than betray us,” Armand swears, his eyes intense with feeling. “I'm safe with him.”

 

Joseph turns to him with a start, impressed. He nods, something fond in his eyes. Something bitter too.

 

-“If he makes you feel safe, maybe he does something more than anyone ever could, including me.” He whispers, idly grazing the window sill with his fingertips.

 

Armand doesn't reply, playing with another biscuit in his hand. His face is distant and blank, his emotions dulled by sheer exhaustion. I must admit I'm drained too. I stretch my shoulders, they crack grimly. I should go away, this damp corridor is driving me mad.

 

But I won't,  _of course I won't._

 

The priest speaks to the gardens again, his voice calm, almost  _sweet_.

 

-“I heard of Treville's deeds on the battlefields of Corbie, Arras and Collioure. What you call bravery, I call recklessness, but in this perhaps both of you match superbly. Nevertheless, he's a fine soldier. He may be a good choice, your  _knight in shining armor_ , considering the amount of lowlifes plotting your death on a daily basis.”

 

 

Armand's eyes dart up to him with a spark of raw hope, and he stands to walk towards his friend. But somewhere in the process, he looses his balance, his face whitening again, and he collapses on his knees in a soft rustle of silk.

 

I clench my teeth, because I know what's next, and as he coughs that wretched sound again, two, five, ten times, my heart sinks deeper in anguish.

 

 

The grey man rushes at his side, and at last he touches him, tough it's only a harsh hand pressed against his throat to count his pulse, the other feeling the gravel in his lungs.

Joseph's eyes widen, and he pales as well.

 

He lifts Armand by the arms so he can inspect his face for a moment, and hisses, panicked:

 

-“How long ago did that cough appear?”

 

Armand has a dismissive flinch, whispering something like “a few days ago”, and I think he may be lying.

 

The priest helps him up, grabbing him roughly by the elbows,  _please, would it hurt you to be gentle?_

 

Once Richelieu seems to stand up by himself, he raises an imperative finger and runs to a massive cabinet where he picks up a small vial. He comes back to Armand and slides the vial in his hand.

 

-“Take five drops in your tea every morning.” He orders.

 

Richelieu nods, trustful.

 

 

-“And now,  **to bed**.” Joseph snaps, pointing at the door. “I don't want to see you take a single step or read one paper for three hours. I'll come and get you when it'll be time to make a show for the monks before vespers.”

 

 

Armand nods again, definitely docile. Before he leaves, though, he breathes something I cannot hear, but it sounds like Latin. Joseph has the sweetest smile I've ever seen on his stern mouth and crosses his heart with a short bow.

 

The grey man finally calls him, only once, and he calls him “Eminence”.

 

 

Confused and overwhelmed, I softly slide the panel back and slide forward into the shadows.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

**Part four** **: A soldier's song**

 

 

 

The secret passage did save me some time, though I still had less than five minutes to make it look like I had been in these rooms for one hour.

 

When he opens the door and walks in, I'm doing my best to look bored, cleaning my gun in shirt and pants, a botched mask of composure stuck upon the whirling storm in my guts.

 

And well, by the looks of him, he's just the same, except for the extra effort to hide the fact that his breathing is still a goddamn  _struggle_.

 

 

He smiles at me distractedly, locks the door, and goes straight for the bed. The rooms are austere, bare, a bit cold, but the bed is covered by a huge blanket in rabbit fur, and he crumbles upon it with a heartbreaking sigh.

 

I won't ask him how it's been with Father Joseph, because I can't fake ignorance  _that much_.

I don't even want to speak.

 

His words, those miraculous words, are still burning in my mind. Those things I never hoped to hear, those raw, ardent feelings of his, are still pulsing in my heart. That better man he sees in me, that higher man I want to be. This fiery love, this wildfire in his eyes, I want to deserve it. Every shred of it.

 

I don't even want to speak.

 

I want to  _show_  him.

 

 

I bite my lips, looking around. There's a tub of water ingeniously kept warm by a double-bottom filled with embers. That has to come first, obviously.

 

There's a bottle of white wine, less harmful than eau-de-vie. It could help.

 

_And I think I know a song._

 

 

 

I start to hum as I stand up, and this has the merit of making him sit up and stare at me. I give him a quick smile, and kiss his brow twice, quietly, chastely, so I don't scare him as I unbutton his robes.

 

I hum, that's all, and he frowns, because he knows that song, of course he does.

 

It's as old as war, it's as old as the sound of soldier's boots in the mud.

 

It has been sung for decades, by voices young and old, in all the barracks of France.

 

It plain, and it's trivial, it marches like a drum, it's joyful and it's stupid, and I'm humming this one because it's as far from a requiem as a bloody song can be.

 

He frowns some more, and he doesn't even notice when I ease his robes off his shoulders.

He frowns of course, and then he laughs, because he remembers.

 

It comes back as an old friend, from a time long forgotten when for a year or two he was just like me, learning sword fight and hoping for war.

 

 

“ _Soit en paix soit en guerre,_  
“Comme des vieux militaires,   
“Nous servirons Louis,   
« En fidélité le jour et la nuit.

 

 

He laughs, a warm glow of youth in his frozen eyes, and I swear to God he's the air I breathe.

 

I gently strip him naked, and he lets me do it, because I keep humming, trying not to smile too much.

 

I push him to the tub, and he steps into it with fatigued grace. I fetch his own soap from his trunks, and gently clean his pale skin, inch by inch, as if we had ten peaceful days in front of us. After a while my humming turns to a low, whispered singing, though frankly I'm not that good.

 

Besides, I don't remember all the words.

 

“ _Adieu tous nos parents,_  
“Adieu mêmement nos chères maîtresses.

 

 

His laugh turns softer at the sound of my voice, obviously made for barking orders more than singing, but I don't care. As I bite my lips because I can't seem to remember what comes next, he joyfully cuts in, drawing a quick map in the air with his damp, delicate hands:

 

-“There was a small tavern at the end of the street the Academy of Pluvinel was on. La Cloche. I used to sing that song over there every Sunday night.”

 

-“La Cloche? Really?” I snort. “I can't believe Antoine Pluvinel, great squire of the King's stables, let his noble pupils walk down to that house of ill repute.”

 

He shrugs, his eyes warmed by the distant memory, surely brought back to him for the first time in years.

 

 

-“He didn't.” He says.

 

And I tut, faking outrage. He rolls his eyes.

 

-“God ahead and tell me you didn't do the same.” He challenges.

 

I just smile.

 

He doesn't need to know the sad, pathetic tale of all those years, spent following my fellow comrades in brothels and taverns, faking virtue, principles and fear of God to justify the obvious fact that I refused every single whore who dared to sit on my lap. He doesn't need to know about the miserable squalid places I had to sneak into, so different from La Cloche, to meet men of  _my kind_ . He doesn't need to know how exactly I had to find my pleasures, before the Louvre, before the Musketeers, before  _him_.

 

I just smile, and I frown jokingly, singing that last part again.

 

 

“ _Adieu tous nos parents,  
“Adieu mêmement nos chères maîtresses._

 

 

-“What's next?” I ask him.

 

 

 

“Ah!” he laughs, snapping his fingers. He closes his eyes in remembrance, mouthing the words, marking the rhythm with a finger on the rim of the tub, and I love him so much I can't breathe.

 

-" _Quand on est engagé, il faut obéir à sa Majesté !_ ” He finishes, the words spoken, not sung, and I hide in a snicker a pang of disappointment.

 

 

There are thirty Spanish bears sniffing our scent less than fifty miles away.

 

We're in an Abbey lost in the lands of a man who paid a fortune to have him shot down.

 

If that man succeeds, we'll both be dead next week.

 

And yet, Dukes of the South, hear him laugh right now, his wet hair falling on his brow like grey commas between the lines my old song.

 

Hear him laugh under the warm sunshine of your lands.

 

_Hear him laugh._

 

 

 

We speak a bit more about La Cloche, the old man Thomas at the counter, gathering abandoned tankards on his tables to pour the leftover beer back in his jars. Of his daughter, sweet Marianne, who died of consumption before she could marry. How fierce we both felt, in his Academy and in my Regiment of French Guards, earning the same glories by sending practice opponents head first into the mud of courtyards.

 

We speak a bit more, and none of it matters, this is not the point of it all.

 

We speak about everything except impending death,  _that's the point._

 

 

After a while, the water starts getting cold, and he steps out, grabbing a towel left by the side of the tub. He says I should bathe too, and I do, cleaning myself in a few quick moves, humming that song again because it's stuck in my head now, oh  _well done_.

 

He wraps the towel around my shoulders himself afterwards, kissing the back of my neck with a low chuckle.

 

He walks back on the bed, then, his exhaustion pushed away for a while, and lies down in a slow, delicate motion. He sprawls himself on the white and grey fur, his clever eyes upon me, his stance humble, and I know what it means. His fingertips graze his mouth, his hips arch up ever so slightly, and if course I know.

 

Of course I know.

 

 

I wish I was as skilled in speech as he is, I wish I could start a long, vibrant tirade about how far he is from a monstrous beast. About how brilliant, how refined, how bloody  _divine_  he is to me. But I'd mess up, I'd stammer, I'd start by speaking about the color of his eyes and the warmth of his soft skin.

 

I'd try to convince him that's he's good, and he'll laugh at me.

 

For every virtue I'll enumerate, he'll pull out five sins.

 

 

Words have never been my trade.

 

Deeds are.

 

 

I grab the bottle of wine.

 

 

I uncork it with my teeth, as old soldiers do, and hand it to him. He searches around for a glass. I groan something demanding. He fetches a stoneware goblet upon the nightstand and states a short, mockingly stern sentence about good manners.

 

He still drinks up. I cheer.

 

We keep up with this dance of white wine and memories until we're both sitting naked on that bed with an empty bottle between us. We kiss, from time to time, and though visibly drunk, he remains guarded. His eyes do have this beckoning glow I know so well, but his hands, graceful and docile, stay on his side of the bed.

 

Well, I can't blame him. The bruises of last time aren't even starting to fade.

 

 

I sigh, pushing aside a vague rush of guilt. I smile at him,  _don't worry Armand._

 

_I have something else to offer._

 

 

I grab his cheeks, straddle his thighs, and lick that fragile skin beneath his ear. He whimpers, squirming a bit, his arms darting around my shoulders. I slowly rub myself against him until we're both hard and panting, his pupils dark and unfocused. I leave a wet trail of soft bites along his jaw, and when I feel him ready to accept everything, I breathe:

 

-“You could take  _me_ , for a change.”

 

 

He makes a strange noise, between a gasp and a small cry. His wide eyes search for mine, look down, and dart back up. His red, swollen lips quiver, and he mouths something like “I'm not sure,” but I pull out my most endearing smile, and well, I too have had my shining years.

 

 

-“I'll show you, don't you fret.”

 

He still hesitates, of course, because it's much more than a question of knowing how. It's all about his certitude to be a lesser man than me, his need to crawl under my hands, to offer himself. How he thinks his natural place to be beneath my weight, my shadow darkening his face. It's all about his lifetime of self-loathing and those knightly virtues he sees in me. All wrong,  _all wrong_.

 

He's each and every glorious tale I ever wanted to die for.

 

He is my France.

 

 

And he has no idea how drenched with  _sin_  I may be.

 

Speech has never been my trade.

 

I'll just show him.

 

 

I grab his right hand, swallow two fingers, and he moans, his cock twitching against mine. He knows. He's drunk, but he's still bloody efficient. When I let go of his hand, he kisses me, rough and wet, biting my lip when his finger slides in, just as I usually do for him.

 

I gasp, breathe in,  _God, it's been so long._

 

 

His pale eyes are fixed upon my face, intense with curiosity. His fingers are thin and deft, he goes in deep, finds my spot in a few moves, and my hips jerk up.

 

-“Armand!”

 

His eyes narrow. He thrusts softly once more, rubbing the same spot, watching my skin shiver, hearing my breath hitch. He's quiet, very focused, and every single one of his moves send sparks of raw pleasure up my spine, God, the bastard's  _clever_.

 

 

I want to hold his shoulders, I swear, no more, but I grip them tight, I'm sorry Armand. I clench my teeth on my cries, and my breath makes short, hissing sounds. He seems to like them, his eyelids falling halfway through, his lips parted. Beneath my hands, his pulse is racing, and I should be careful, he hasn't recovered, not at all.

 

Somewhere within, illness awaits.

 

Somewhere outside, death approaches.

 

 

And yet, angels of doom, and yet.

See his wide eyes burn for the moans I give him.

 

 

-“More,” I ask, and he adds a second finger with careful compliance.

 

Then, he thrusts hard and I flinch. I'm not that young anymore. He frowns, assessing me with a sharp stare, and does it again, slower.

 

I hear a pathetic, helpless cry that must be mine.

 

He smiles the smile he has when Kings and Popes bow down to his will.

 

I want to be quiet, I swear I do. But he licks the thumb of his own free hand to roll it over my nipple, God, I've shown that to him only  _once_. I lower my face into his hair to hide my burning cheeks, my glassy eyes, but he gasps some kind of refusal. His moves lose their focus. In a heartbeat his hand grabs my own hair and roughly pulls me back. His eyes look for mine, and hold onto them. He adjusts his fingers, and I shout.

 

Oh, Lord, he needs to  _gauge_  me all along.

 

 

He finds a rhythm, something merciless, and soon enough I'm begging for a third. He grants it to me with a lenient smirk, and God, it burns, it devours me, it's everything, and it's not enough.

 

I wish I could keep it quiet, I can't, those raspy, shameful cries wouldn't stop. I press myself against him until both our cocks slide against our stomachs with the moves of my hips, so I can give back a little, because all I can do with my hands is stroke his neck or graze his hair, I'm sorry Armand.

 

I thought I knew more than you, but I knew  _nothing_.

 

He doesn't seem to mind, feeding on my cries, his eyes gleaming, his breath uneven. I feel him hard and dripping against me, but I won't dare to touch him.

 

I want it to last. 

  
God, I want this to last forever.

 

 

My thighs will hurt tomorrow, but I can't stop moving, and it's goddamn wonderful for a while, but soon the need for more has me breathing against his mouth.

 

-“Wait.”

 

 

 

He blinks twice, a bit dazed, and between my own pants I realize he's been moaning softly in short cries. He's trembling all over, his thin muscles strained by tension. I'll ask exactly what part of all this drives him  _that_  mad later.

 

Right now, I need him.

 

He looks up at me, suspended, expecting.

 

I push him away a little, and he must think I want him lying down, because he has this graceful, docile smile again, and slumps backwards on the bed.

 

-“No, Armand, not like that. Come back here.” I pant.

 

 

His eyes look absolutely lost as he slowly sits back, and I kiss him long and deep to reassure him.

 

He moans, his tongue passing on my lower lip with barely hidden delight. Using the distraction as always, I position myself and guide him into me, lowering my hips in one slow move.

 

He almost cries out as loud as I do.

 

God, it hurts, it burns. I'm not that young. And yet, it's him, taking me,  _filling_  me, so deep I can't breathe, sending spasms of raw pleasure through my skin. I angle myself, start moving up and down, and one of his hands blindly grabs my thigh, to steady me or to steady himself I have no idea.

 

This time, he's too stunned to stop me from hiding my face in his hair, and lets me do it as long as I keep moaning into his ear.

 

I fear I do much more than that.

 

 

The soft feather mattress sighs as my thrusts become harsh, my fingertips digging into his bruised shoulders, will I ever stop hurting him. I think I'm speaking his name, I think I just told him he's beautiful, oh Lord, see, I told you I'm a disgrace with words. Wildfire spreads inside of me, destroying my resolve, my pride, my dignity. My mind is wiped out by pleasure, and I'm nothing more than a slave to his gasps. I'll be sore for days, and I cannot care, my soul is nailed to that skin in the crook of his neck, and all I want is the next thrust of his cock.

 

His moans are lower, but just as desperate as mine. All I see are flashes of silver as I kiss his soft hair. I don't even know what makes us move anymore. Something else, something more.

His angle shifts, and I see sparks of white. I focus on his pulse, or I just might fall.

 

I gasp his name, oh God, I think I said I loved him.

 

 

His heart missed a beat.

 

 

He suddenly groans a strange, threatening sound, and both his hands grab my waist. He flips me over on the bed with a  _strength_  that cannot come from a thin, exhausted man, and I'll be ashamed of this shocked yelp all my life. I'll ask how the hell he did that later.

 

Right now he's pinning me on the bed, thrusting deep, and all I can do is shout.

 

He moves, reckless, hitting that spot inside of me, turning my soul into liquid fire. He's not slow, he's not gentle and he's bloody  _amazing_.

 

I cry out his name, I won't last. His eyes still hold on to mine, and somehow it's frightening, because this stare he has for me right now, is the one he has when he signs death sentences.

 

It's those frozen, limpid eyes of the Red Man.

 

His hands are gripping my wrists, and I don't even want to try and see if I can escape. His mouth is thin, his thrusts unforgiving, but I  _asked_  him to take the lead, that was to be expected. I close my eyes, but he hisses that refusal again. One of his hands lets go of my wrist to grab my face, and my eyes snap open, only to see him grin like a demon, changing his rhythm, defeating me.

 

I know I called him one more time.

 

I know he had a hungry, commanding voice when he told me to come for him.

 

 

After that, I swear, all I did is let go of his shoulders and fall.

 

 

_And fall._

 

 

I laid right where he pinned me, for a bloody long time after that, too dazed to see anything beyond a glimpse of his eyes as he kisses my brow. I let the deep, pulsing waves of pleasure pass along my spine is slow shudders, God, all those years, and  _I knew nothing._

 

Forty years, all my life, and it bloody well looks like a dry, barren wasteland right now.

 

I have no idea if I should laugh or cry.

 

 

When my mind is clear enough to trust my senses, the first thing I do is to check him for signs of sickness again, because he's panting and flushed, eyes squeezed shut, face buried in my chest.

 

But his breathing is clear of wheezing, his skin warm, his pulse fast, but steady.

 

Hell, I don't even know if it's been good for him too.

 

-“Armand?”

 

 

He lifts his head so he can look at me, and I know this soft, sated glint in his eyes, it's alright.

It's even a little more than that, because there's quite a lot of pride in the corner of his lips, o _h you can gloat, you clever snake._

 

 

His victory march doesn't last, though, exhaustion catching up fast. He whispers something sweet, about how I shouldn't expect him to do that too often, because he's older than me, and he has privileges. I roll my eyes. His speech breaks up after that, there’s just one thing I get clearly, uttered barely above a sigh:

 

-“Don't feel guilty if they kill me after all, Jean. You already saved me, you know.”

 

 

I wish I could ask him what he means by that, but his limbs let go of their tension, his head fall back on my shoulder and his breath evens. He's asleep in a minute.

 

I wait for a while before I move away, easing him on the bed, and throwing the covers on him. I clean myself and get dressed in a mist of unanswered questions, vague planning, and lonely bits of this old song.

 

I pick up his robes, hanging them on a valet stand and check the rooms again for traces of what we've done, out of pure habit. When I'm sure everything is in order, I grab my gun and go back to the bed, leaning over to kiss his temple. He's warm, I wish I could stay.

 

But I've got to take my watch, as soldiers do, do you remember Armand?

 

 

_Quand on est engagé_

_Il faut obéir à sa Majesté !_

 

 

 

I graze his hair with my fingertips and leave.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Part Four** **: Friends and comrades.**

 

I find Jussac in the courtyard, helping two monks to rake away the last remnants of the aviary. We talk briefly about the state of the carriage and horses, a few possible escape routes, and the thick walls of the Abbey.

 

-“This place is positively impregnable, even for thirty men,” I state with a look around the ancient buildings. “But what troubles me is the whole damn lot of people already inside. The converts, the monks, dozens of pilgrims, and I’m not even speaking of the guests at the banquet tonight. We’re in the middle of enemy lands, and frankly, anyone could be a threat.”

 

Jussac nods, and we agree upon keeping watch indoors, focusing on poisoning or lone assassins.

 

 

-“We have our chances.” I add with a lighter voice. “The perimeter to watch won’t be so large. The Cardinal shouldn’t leave his rooms until tomorrow night. Sleeping, I hope.”

 

 

The taciturn soldier has an appraising look for me, biting his lips. He seems to hesitate for a while, and I raise my eyebrows, encouraging him.

 

-“Yes?”

 

Jussac makes a vague gesture towards the guest floors.

 

-“How is he?” He asks.

 

I think I let out a small grin of relief, because I still expected some form of judgment from him, as I will for a long time, consciously or not.

 

-“He’s exhausted, and if we make it through this mess, I want all three physicians of the Court to watch his lungs as if their lives depended on it because they might well do. But truth be told, his own death doesn’t even seem to be the first of his worries.”

 

 

Jussac barks a good-hearted laugh, mimicking a salute with his eyes up to the skies.

-“France!” He chants. “The King! Unity and faith!”

 

He darts a wary look at me and quickly retreats to a quieter stance.

 

-“Don’t get me wrong, Captain.” He apologizes. “I’d lay down my life for his Eminence.”

 

-“Why?” I let out before I think about it.

 

He almost jumps with surprise, disbelief painted on his face.

 

_Yes, I’m the one asking._

 

-“Half of this country wants him dead” I explain, “and I know most of the Red Guards are only there because he pays more than anyone else. Well, whatever he pays  _you_ , it’s not worth the danger you’re throat-deep into today. You had countless occasions to run away. I want to know why you’re still here.”

 

He looks down at his boots for a while, then his eyes meet mine and with a plain, yet forceful voice, he tells me what could be the longest sentence he’ll ever speak in my presence:

 

-“Because when you spend twelve years at his service, you have two options. Either you understand a lot, and you give all you have to make sure he lives on, or you understand very little, and you try to kill him while he sleeps.”

 

This has the merit of leaving me speechless.

 

I briefly consider talking to Armand about this man being far under ranked in his regiment.

But I only nod, sweeping a blank stare upon the rich gardens of Fontfroide.

 

-“Dismissed, soldier.” I whisper.

 

I hear his heels clicking, and he leaves without a word.

 

 

My watch is quiet, made of quick circles around the main building and longer walks in the corridors inside, sliding through secret passageways, checking doors, watching windows. I count forty monks, twice as much converts, twenty-five pilgrims, and local guests for the evening are starting to arrive. God, I’ll need to be bloody careful. I don’t want him sitting or standing anywhere I haven’t checked and approved. They’ll all hate me by the end of it, but I couldn’t care less.

 

If it was only me, Armand wouldn’t leave his rooms. But if he locks himself up, and there are spies for the Dukes around, they’ll know he’s afraid of something. And as far as they know, he didn’t hear about those thirty men, and he’s still looking for the name of their leader in Paris.

 

Being seen walking around with the Abbot and the monks, listening to lectures and requiems, will make it look like we don’t know too much. That’s safer. At least that’s safer today.

 

Lost in my nightmarish calculations, I end up pacing aimlessly around his rooms, drawing my sword at every footstep I hear, my nervousness pushing me back into my old dog habits.

 

So, of course, as one door behind me bangs open, I spin around and find myself pointing my blade just beneath Father Joseph’s throat.

 

The Capuchin, holding the folder I’ve seen earlier in the study, doesn’t even flinch. He eyes me up and down, waiting. I clear my throat and step back, sheathing my sword in a swift move.

 

In a thousand years I won’t be able to find anything clever to say, so I mumble some botched apology, and let him walk away. But the wicked priest goes straight to Armand’s rooms, and for God’s sake, it’s been  _two hours_  since he fell asleep.

 

-“Is it necessary?” I grunt.

 

A hand still suspended above the door handle, Joseph turns to me and frowns, stern and dignified.

 

I gesture towards the room, pissed by my own unease.

 

-“He’s resting,” I let out. “Doesn’t get much of that those days.”

 

The priest glances briefly at the door, then back at me. One more long, gauging stare, God I’m growing tired of those. He suddenly shrugs, strides back to me and opens his folder.

 

-“Well, I guess you’ll do, then,” he simply says.

 

He has a suspicious look around, and he pulls out a rolled map, handing it to me.

 

-“I have marked the three safest routes through Guyenne to the Abbey of Chancelade, the meeting point with your men.” He says. “You will leave tomorrow afternoon. Don’t rush North too directly. If you are followed, they will know we have found out everything and there won’t be any safe road anymore. Keep moving and don’t get caught.”

 

_What do you take me for, a cadet?_

 

-“I don’t think I’ve done such a lousy job at that so far,” I grumble.

 

 

His dark stare meets mine, and I don’t care how clever, how important that man is. As far as Armand’s protection is concerned, I need lessons from no one. But Joseph just nods, closing his folder with a soft clapping sound.

 

-“That is true,” He concedes. “Thank you.”

 

I think I was opening my mouth for more fighting, and my teeth click as I shut it.

 

He sighs, walks to the nearest window, and seems to contemplate the view upon the sumptuous orchards of apple and plum trees, gorged with sunlight and radiant colors.

 

And he speaks to me.

 

He speaks to me for almost one hour, about God, about the King, about those men who want us dead. He spits on their names, he laughs at their reasons. He makes wide, angry gestures with his hand, his face alive with emotion, oh I've seen that before.

 

He talks about Armand, his words devoted and restrained, and he looks satisfied with the short, awkward answers I give him. He praises his wits, tells me how resolved he's always been, determined to get so much more than what his frail, sick body promised him.

 

At the end of it all, we're both looking out that window, side by side, and though I still have ears all around, I think I may have smiled once or twice, because  _Armand has a friend_ , and the thought is nice to me.

 

At some point, he speaks no more, watching the sky, checking the time, and pointing at the door.

 

-“Go wake him up.” He says. “He needs to be seen outside.”

 

 

I feel a sharp wave of relief, because with this, he quietly acknowledges my place at Armand's side, but I'm not blind enough to miss this bitterness in his voice.

 

I have no idea if it's jealousy, but it bloody well looks like something of that kind.

 

I realize that before me, before La Rochelle, this stern and nervous priest may have been Armand's only horizon. There's not a world where I could speak up and tell this man I'm not taking his place.

 

We don't have time for that.

 

So I just knock on Armand's door and, open it for Joseph and step aside.

 

I nod towards the folder the grey man is still gripping in his scrawny hands.

 

-“He needs you too.” I breathe.

 

With an intense and heavy stare that could write a bloody lifetime of books, Joseph mouths his thanks, and steps in.

 

 

***

 

**Part Five** **: As early morning dies.**

 

 

Armand has been seen around alright.

 

Poised and focused during a short, but delicate mass sung by the monks.

 

Delighted and absorbed during a visit of the scriptorium with the Abbot.

 

Good-humored and patient during an eternity of a banquet.

 

 

He played his part flawlessly, with Father Joseph in his shadow, and me circling around.

 

Only a slight whitening of his cheeks, or a subtle leaning against a chair showed how fatigue and sickness were still gnawing at his insides. Once or twice, tough, Joseph had to grab Armand's elbow so his faltering wouldn't be noticed, sharing short, worried glances with me.

 

So, around midnight, even if the banquet hall was still packed with a tight crowd and Armand was still holding up a decent façade, Joseph nudged and harassed him until he gently apologized and left to retire for the night.

 

The priest stayed in the hall, because someone had to represent the Cardinal, and I walked Richelieu to his rooms. I ordered him to sleep and he didn't even raise a hand in protest. He kissed the two corners of my mouth with a bloodless smile and collapsed on the bed with the beginning of a foul cough.

 

I counted his pulse and checked his lungs as he slept. It kept worsening.

 

 

 

 

Worried sick, I left the rooms and kept watch outside his door, burying my own exhaustion into the mass grave I have in my mind for all the issues I don't want to face.

 

 

It will be dawn soon enough.

 

And muffled by the walls, I still hear voices and noise from the banquet hall.

 

 

I rub my eyes, sighing. Jussac must have had a few hours of sleep by now. Maybe he could take over until we leave for Chancelade. I won't be of much use if I keep on ignoring this buzzing blur in my head.

 

I sigh sharply, crack the joints of my neck once or twice, and move to leave, but there are footsteps approaching.

 

Soft, but quick. Three men at least, with weapons,  _oh for God's sake can I bloody rest?_

 

 

I draw my sword and wait.

 

But the three men who come up the stairs from the banquet hall are sharing quiet laughter and idle talk, and as they see me, their faces light up.

 

 

Military men, the three of them, dressed in formal, civil attire, but even without the uniforms, we soldiers all walk the same. One of them I think I have seen somewhere before. He's tall and bulky, with a blunt face, and looks like he's on the good side of forty, hell, where was it?

 

The others are smaller, one of them dark-haired, brown-skinned and quite handsome, no doubt with Spanish blood. The other thin and nervous, his face lost in constant twitching, his hairline receding.

 

-“Treville!” The taller man shouts, greeting me with a bottle of wine raised in the air. “I was sure it was you! We've been looking for you!”

 

Clermont. François de Clermont, colonel of the infantry regiment; he was in Collioure, I remember now.

 

-“Clermont!” I nod. “What are you doing here?”

 

The colonel roars a thunderous laughter, pushing his friends closer to me.

 

-“My regiment is stationed in Narbonne.” He explains with a vague gesture. “Things have been quiet those days, my old Treville, if only you knew. We heard of this banquet because the Archbishop of Narbonne was invited, so you know... as those monks sure know how to make wine...”

 

He laughs again, too close to me, and my ears could bleed.

 

He claps my back with a force that would have me grunting in pain if I didn't bite my tongue on it, and gestures towards his companion, the Spaniard first, then the nervous man :

 

 

-“My lieutenants : De Gèdre, a Gascon just like you, and Colligny.”

 

I greet both with a tired smile.

 

Clermont points a joyful finger at my chest, haranguing the others:

 

 

-“I told you, this man is an bloody wizard with a blade ! We served together in Collioure. Hell, I still tell my son about your charge against the Spanish. Alone, on this old farm horse you stole from the inn! On your own against, how many Spaniards, twenty-five?”

 

I frown, dismissing the growing legend with a shrug, where did that thing even come from?

 

-“Not half as many,” I huff.

 

-“Of course there were twenty-five of them!” Clermont guffaws. “And you cut through them like through fresh butter!”

 

His lieutenants nod and cheer, both looking passably impressed.

 

Well, don't be. I was young, by then, and much more stupid than brave. There were ten Spaniards in front of me, twelve at most, and I was lucky, that's all.

 

If you want to be impressed, soldiers, wait for a few days, and watch me fight  _thirty_.

 

-“Have a drink with us, for old time’s sake!” Clermont shouts, pulling out his tankard and filling it up to the rim with wine.

 

He hands me the tankard, and I bite my lips, looking away for a second. There are hundreds of reasons why I shouldn’t. I’m on duty, for God’s sake, and I’m supposed to watch out for poison and daggers. For all I know, this glass could be full of hemlock.

 

Clermont notices the hesitation I’m too tired to hide, and pats my shoulder sympathetically.

 

-“Beware my friend, beware! That devil in red is corrupting you. A few days with the Cardinal and you grow suspicious even of your old friends!”

 

 

I flinch. He may be right. They have three guns and three blades. If they wanted to kill me, I’d be lying in my own blood already. I take the tankard and nod my thanks. I drink up. Well it bloody tastes like wine. It’s strong and heavy, and it may be the slap in the face I needed to stay awake.

 

More cheering from Colligny and the Gascon, as they pull out their own tankards to claim their share. Clermont pours generously, asking:

 

-“How come the Captain of the Royal Musketeers travels so far from Paris, alone without his men, and with bloody Richelieu on top of it all? ”

 

I shrug again, faking irritation on pure automatism.

 

-“By direct order of the King” I grumble.

 

 

-“Hah! According to Richelieu’s own suggestions no doubt!” Colligny laughs in a surprisingly strong, steady voice. “He must have asked for you by name just to ruin a few weeks of your Musketeers training schedule!”

 

-“That may give his Red Guards a small occasion to catch up!” De Gèdre adds.

 

Upon  _that_ , I let out a soft snicker. I’m sorry Armand.

 

 

-“That wicked Red Man!” Clermont spits, gulping his wine. “You must have faced more amiable folk in Collioure!”

 

I carefully choose a very noncommittal smile. Hearing a fellow soldier speak of him that way has me swallowing back the need to punch Clermont’s face. But I tend to forget half of France does hate him, most of all in southern Languedoc.

 

-“How long does it take from Paris down to here?” De Gèdre asks. “Twenty days? Hasn’t he been too much of a burden?”

 

For these occasions, I always have a small stock of well-prepared sentences at hand. Armand knows it, some of them even made him laugh. I pick one and smirk:

 

-“The Cardinal masters the art of driving me insane.”

 

I’m not even lying.

 

A round of cheerful laughter. Tankards clang, are emptied, refilled, raised up.

 

-“To His Eminence know-it-all!” Clermont sneers.

 

-“An opinion about everything!” Colligny mocks.

 

-“From the training schedule of your cadets to the way your boots are waxed!” De Gèdre adds.

 

 

I laugh again. Christ, I shouldn’t, I should provoke them all in duel and leave them bleeding in the dust, but there  _is_  some truth in their nonsense.

 

-“Don't you want to punch that mouth of his shut from time to time?” Clermont inquires in between chuckles as he refills my goblet.

 

\- “Everyday” I state.

 

Still not lying.

 

-“He's insufferable enough when he's silent.” The Colonel muses.

 

His lieutenants snort, nudging and winking at each other.

 

-“He's a bloody plague when he talks!”

 

-“And Lord knows he talks a lot!”

 

I feel exasperation growing in my guts, but that’s exactly what happens half of the time I hear people speak of him, and keeping it to myself has always proved to be the wiser choice. So I just smile, nodding, and I don’t even wince when Clermont asks:

 

-“Don't you wish you could make him shut it for good?”

 

-“Sometimes.” I shrug, and sadly, even that may be true.

 

 

-“ _We could help you with that_.” He offers, his voice deadly quiet.

 

 

I freeze.

 

My hand clenches my tankard hard enough to bend it, and I have the reflex to hide my mouth behind it as I watch those three faces with stunned focus.

 

They’re not joking.

 

They never were.

 

 

 

_They’re part of the plot._

 

 

God, those are brothers in arms. My own comrades.

 

And they think  **I**  would...?

 

I grit my teeth. I feel sick. I want to shout, I want to rip them into pieces.

 

Hell, get a grip.

 

I breathe deeply.

 

\- “You could?” I whisper, and I hope this gasping shred of a voice will be mistaken for excitement.

 

The enigmatic smile that lifts Clermont's thin lips if straight-out frightening, but my facade must be good enough, because he leans close to me and hints:

 

-“We have friends in these lands, very powerful friends, who are getting irritated by the absolute control Richelieu has upon the matters of the state.”

 

I frown, and I pray for the trembling of my hand upon my sword to pass unnoticed.

 

-“How powerful exactly?”

 

-“The highest you could find South of Lyon.” Colligny utters with a wink.

 

-“The Dukes?” I rasp.

 

 

They all nod, beaming pride.

 

They obviously don't know anything about Cinq-Mars.

 

D'Effiat and the Dukes are letting middlemen do the nasty work. God, how many are they? Three of them in front of me, how much more in the Abbey, in Languedoc?

 

 

How much more in this bloody country?

 

 

-“Listen, Treville,” Clermont says, throwing an arm around my shoulders; “Surely you agree with us. Everybody knows the King himself doesn't move a finger without Richelieu's permission. This cursed man is everywhere. In Church, in State, from Louis' own rooms to every church of France.”

 

-“Richelieu decides who lives or dies, who stays at the court, who rots in prison.” De Gèdre spits.

 

-“Richelieu wants the Protestants to burn, the King lights the stakes!” Colligny hisses, throwing his hand in the air with spite. “Richelieu wants to fight the Habsburgs, the King just hands him the money!”

 

-“How many did he kill?” Clermont growls in my ear. “You've seen the mass grave of La Rochelle!”

 

I swallow with a dry sound. I nod.

 

-“And you haven't seen the less visible murders!” The Colonel pushed further, fervent. “The poisoning, the fake suicides, the exiled, the stabbed. Women and children too!”

 

 

 

_If only you knew, you tall heap of horse crap._

 

I've seen that, and I've seen more. I've seen them all, I've seen everything. He signed death sentences in his bed, his legs still tangled in mine. He spoke names of people he would have murdered the next morning, offering me wine to wash out the taste of him. He watched bodies burn upon incensed stakes until the last ember faded out, and kissed my neck the same evening with the stench of death still floating in his cloak.

 

I've seen everything, Clermont, and I let him do it all.

 

 

Oh, of course I shouted. I slapped him in the face, grabbed his throat, insult him until I couldn't breathe. I did that a thousand times, and yet, always, inescapably, he proved to be right. He spoke of his reasons, sometimes with my hand still around his neck, and each time, every time, the bastard was right. What he was doing needed to be done, and couldn't be done any other way.

 

'It is awful, but it is necessary' he always says.

 

A few times, I cried in his own arms upon the hideous things to come. He held me, whispering about France, about the King, and the hundreds kept alive by killing a dozen.

 

If only you knew, Clermont, the things I didn't stop him from doing.

 

 

-“So much power for only one man is not healthy,” Colligny argues. “What if he's wrong?”

 

 

Hah. What if you are?

 

Heroes and evil warlords, you know, it's only a point of view.

 

 

-“The King seems to think he's right.” I point out, and my hopes to destabilize them crumble as they gloat even more.

 

-“If I told you the King has enough of him...” Clermont murmurs.

 

 

I almost laugh, but the sound chokes in my throat. Armand's words, spoken in our hurried flight through Languedoc, ring in my ears again.

 

_'Who says I'll have the same luck now that Louis has grown self-confident, and most of my work is already done?'_

 

God, I forgot. The King is in love with Cinq-Mars, and this may be the fifth assassination plot against Richelieu in ten years. The Cardinal is a political genius, a brilliant diplomat, and the most obsessed Minister France will ever have, but Louis may actually grow tired of the effort to keep him alive at his side.

 

Richelieu rules over a country that doesn't understand a shred of what he's doing, and hates him to the bone. Thousands would cheer if Louis lets him die.

 

Thousands would cheer.

 

 

_Who would cry?_

 

 

-”The King would want his first Minister dead?” I breathe, the cold sweat of panic sliding in my back.

 

-”A Minister who serves his own purposes more than his country and King, why not?” De Gèdre shrugs.

 

 

I let go of my breath. No, calm down, it's nonsense. 

Louis may be tired of the mess Richelieu makes, but he knows the glory of France and its King is Armand's only purpose. God, he sees him push himself to the brink of sickness every bloody day, for a treaty or a battlefield, for a plot or a pamphlet. He witnessed how far Richelieu can go, and the way he smiles when the crowd cheers for their King.

 Those fools don't even know about Cinq-Mars, how could they know about what the King thinks?

 

Louis will not abandon him. They know nothing.

Safer to look like I don't know better, though.

 

-”If this is the King's will.” I mutter. “How do you plan to proceed?”

 

 

The three soldiers look at each other in pride and trepidation. They sound like they could punch the air and sing songs, filthy traitors. How can they think I'd be a part of this disgusting scheme? I am a Musketeer, for God's sake, do I look like a man who could murder a Cardinal in cold blood?

 

Do I look like I _hate_ him?

Did I lie so well, is my mask that thick?

 

_Look at that, Armand, you'd be proud of me._

 

 

 

-”Actually, we don't.” Clermont explains. “Our job wasn't about him, it's the monk Joseph we were watching. The Dukes knew Richelieu was traveling South, using Church as a reason, and they supposed those two were bound to meet sooner or later. We spotted Joseph as he was retrieving documents from a crypt in Narbonne and that's where we knew the Cardinal had summoned him. We followed the monk here, and there he was, that bloody red demon, sitting right at the Abbot's table, smiling like an angel!”

 

 

De Gèdre actually _spits_ on the floor, and I want to watch his legs shudder as he hangs high on the gallows. I gulp down the rest of my wine, and keep my eyes down as I whisper :

 

-”Who is supposed to do the job, then?”

 

 

-”That's the problem, somehow.” Clermont coughs, shooting glances at his lieutenants. “Our high-ranked friends have thirty mercenaries to do the deed. They're camped around Narbonne, but they're useless in here. This old bastion is too well defended. Two ramparts, ditches, drawbridges. The place is ancient, an army couldn't get in.”

 

Colligny starts shifting his weight from one feet to another, and I smell the stench of cowards upon the sweat of his brow.

 

-”What we have here tonight is ourselves and a few other comrades who share our ideas, but, you see... “ He stammers. “We're paid to watch the old monk, right. Killing the big man, it's something else entirely.”

 

_Oh, really?_

With all the laughter and the curses, you still wouldn't stare at him in the eyes.

 

Lowlifes.

 

 

-”Those Spanish gunmen were hired to do it, right?” De Gèdre shrugs. “ Let's leave the job to them. But thing is, they can't do it here, they need Richelieu out of Bonnevaux. We were thinking about squeezing your route out of here from the old monk, you know, shake him a little, and send the mercenaries somewhere along the way.”

Clermont pats my shoulder once more, and I want this one's tongue to be burned off his face with red-hot scissors before he hangs.

 

 

-”But when we saw you at the dinner, we thought, well...” He says, overdone. “We thought we might just have a better plan. I know you, Treville, you're a honest man. This cunning red devil can't be in your good books. Richelieu may have thought he was being clever by choosing you as personal guard, but we think he might have sealed his doom.”

 

-”The task will be easy for you, you have access to his rooms.” Colligny breathes, leaning close to my face, oh, Lord, have this one _quartered_. “He trusts you. All you need is one moment. After what I've seen you do in Collioure, this featherweight isn't even going to be a challenge. ”

 

 

I grit my teeth upon a dizzy, twirling nausea. My hands could kill them on their own volition if I didn't squeeze my tankard tight.

How can they even dare to speak that way, that man forged the Country they're supposed to serve.

He is the reason we don't have to bow down to some half-blood Habsburg in Lyon or in Strasbourg.

He is every treaty that makes these lands rich, every year of peace that keep those pigs alive and fat.

 

He is France.

 

 

_He is my everything._

 

 

-”What would be your preference?” Clermont slides under my nose. “Poison? We can provide some.”

 

I want to watch them burn. I want to watch them bleed.

I wait, count to three and breathe before I look into his eyes and smile.

 

 

-”You seem well organized. How many more friends do you have tonight in Bonnevaux?” I ask, unctuous.

 

Colligny starts to count on his fingers and is about to speak names, when Clermont slaps his head and frowns at me, hissing:

 

-”Wait. Are you in or not?”

 

 

 

_Bloody hell._

 

 

 

 

I could kill them right now, but there's still is an unknown number of the Duke's agents wandering free among the bloody crowd inside these walls tonight, and some of them might not be as scared of killing Richelieu as those three idiots are. There's just too many to watch out for. Even if we leave as fast as we can, three dead men in that corridor will have the others throw themselves at our throats, and with Armand's health, we won't run forever. This is too dangerous. 

 

I might as well play their game. 

They truly think I do hate him, they think me low enough to stab him as he sleeps, I could use that.

Thake the fight where and when I want it, and face them with my own rules. 

 

I need to lead them to Chancelade. If the plan has worked out fine in Paris, my Musketeers will be there in a day or two. Let's say four, to be sure. Give me three men of my garrison, six hours and as many guns, and thirty spaniards will be a bloody walk in the gardens.

 

 

Fair fight in broad daylight.

This kind of war I can handle.

 

 

-”I'm in, of course, but there's too much people here to do anything.” I grunt, shaking my head. “Even if we make it look like an accident, the monk, Father Joseph, is clever and respected. He will demand an inquiry. We'd all be held here for an eternity. If he finds out anything, we would have done this for nothing.”

 

 

-”Well, let's kill the monk too! Who cares?” Colligny shrugs.

 

-”No one would believe in two unfortunate accidents in one night.” I dismiss with a wave of my hand. “No. His death here would attract too much attention. Besides, May I remind you I've been commissioned by the King himself to protect the Cardinal? How do you think the King will receive the news of my failure? I want him dead alright, but I don't want my reputation to die with him. I am a soldier, I have risked my life countless times to forge it. That's my pride, I won't let go of it.”

 

 

They look at each other, dubious, and nod. 'He's right', De Gèdre mouths, and Clermont approves with a grunt.

 

 

-”What do you propose?” he says, and I hear victory drums.

 

I lick my lips, look around, mimic their bowed, vicious stances, and pull out some kind of grin.

 

 

-”Well, we have thirty mercenaries at hand, don't we? Let's use them.We need another Abbey on Richelieu's road. A smaller place, open, defenseless, but wealthy enough. Those men will raid the place, make it look like an attack from bandits. It happens quite often in these lands, right? They get in, kill everyone, monks and Cardinal alike, burn the corpses, pillage everything. No trace, no witness. I am said to be among the victims, dead in the line of duty, spotless martyr.”

 

 

They exchange some more glares and whispers while my heart misses one beat or two. Then, they nod, grinning like the pigs they are.

 

I want to watch them die.

 

 

I lean back against the wall, looking absorbed by a detail of my tankards, and mutter, affable :

 

-”I suppose, of course, than in exchange for my services, I can count on your powerful friends to make arrangements for my... comfortable retirement in Spain?”

 

-”They'll make you wealthy as a prince!” Clermont promises, gripping my hand and shaking it absurdly fast.

 

 

I laugh, and I don't know why, truly. I am so bloody tired.

 

 

We discuss some more details, a few of them they write down.

 

I gladly provide the four-days route from Narbonne to Chancelade the mercenaries will have to take, and instructions on how to disguise their raid as an attack of pillagers. I smile a lot, and drink some more, clasp their hands, clap their back. Their men should arrive a day after us.

 

I'll have one day with my Musketeers to prepare our battlefield.

A luxury we don't always get.

 

 

I should be alright.

_It should be alright._

 

 

 

At some point, they cheer one last time and leave, marching to the stairs in pride and smugness.

At some point, I'm left in that corridor, my back against the wall, and there's only silence.

 

Slowly, gently, my back slides down the wall until I fall on the floor with a muffled thud.

There's something sad and delirious that's shaking me and I think I'm laughing, I don't know why, God I'm so tired, so tired now.

 

 

My heart seems to be struggling with his own beating, and I find myself panting, shivering like a sick dog. I mutter unstitched bits of prayers I learned from Armand, and look up at the high windows.

 

Daylight has come, I don't know when. The yellow glow of dawn is fading into the subtle blue of morning, it's tomorrow already, and all I am is a blur. I still laugh, without a sound, shaken in painful spasms, bitter tears rolling down my face.

 

 

How long I stay there, right next to his door, I cannot care.

Early morning is almost gone.

 

 

 

I think I closed my eyes. I may have, because I didn't see that monk coming.

 

He speaks to me, I don't hear it all. I'm still laughing, I'm sorry. I never laugh like that, I swear.

I'm fine, I'm just tired. I look up at him, but my eyes are unsure, all I see is shapeless forms.

 

I blink twice, and he touches my arm, he sounds anguished.

 

-”Captain Treville?” he calls, and I know his voice.

 

 

 

He's the monk with the doves. The one who gathered them in his robes, crying, I remember him.

I remember his soft, desperate cries, as he hugged those dead birds tight. I like that man.

You can't doubt a man who breeds doves, you know.

 

 

Doves are such a beautiful thing.

 

I gaze at the window, far above my head. How clear he skies of Languedoc are today. Soon, the air will be filled with perfumes again. The trees, heavy with fruit, will dance upon the soft southern breeze.

 

Early morning leaves.

 

The sound of my desperate, insane laughter still rings upon the walls, upon the door of Armand's rooms. The monk leans down, searches my eyes, touches my brow, speaks my name, oh I'm fine, I'm fine.

 

 

 

-”The gunpowder you used for that aviary...” I just breathe.

 

 

The monk grabs my hand, tries to help me up, but all I am is a bruise.

 

 

Daylight is already touching my boots, crawling on the thick woonder floor, early morning lives no more.

 

 

-”How much is left?” I ask.

 

 

 

 

 

As early morning dies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy, eh? :D
> 
>  
> 
> I don't think I've ever written so much in one chapter.  
> A lot of things happened in Fontfroide. 
> 
>  
> 
> Again, for those who are interested, the game of what's true, what's fiction.
> 
> Father Joseph, his true name being François Leclerc du Tremblay, has indeed spent his whole life at the service of Richelieu.  
> Joseph was a brilliant, talented man Richelieu used to name (fondly) "Ezechieli", because of his incredible talent in negociations, and his wide network of Capuchin contacts giving him fresh information from all around Europe.  
> In fact, Father Joseph was one of the pioneers of a true secret service.  
> He was with Richelieu at La Rochelle, and the Cardinal sent him more than once abroad to negociate treaties, or gather information for his purposes. 
> 
> When he dies quite abruptly of a heart attack, Richelieu, devastated, locked himself up in his rooms for days and wrote : 
> 
> "I have lost my only comfort, my only help. I have lost my confident and my support".
> 
>  
> 
> He is forever remembered as the Grey Eminence.  
> Because he was just as respected and feared as the Cardinal, but always refused to be promoted higher than his rank of priest (with grey robes).
> 
> Richelieu, years later, will replace him by Mazarini. 
> 
>  
> 
> For those who want to know more, I recommend the book "Le Père Joseph. L'Éminence grise de Richelieu  
> By Benoist Pierre,  
> Paris, Ếditions Perrin, 2007, 476 p.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \------
> 
>  
> 
> English translation of the soldiers song : 
> 
>  
> 
> Soit en paix soit en guerre,  
> “Comme des vieux militaires,  
> “Nous servirons Louis,  
> « En fidélité le jour et la nuit.
> 
>  
> 
> Both in peace or in war
> 
> As old soldiers do
> 
> We shall serve Louis
> 
> In loyalty both day and night
> 
>  
> 
> “Adieu tous nos parents,  
> “Adieu mêmement nos chères maîtresses.
> 
>  
> 
> Goodbye all our parents
> 
> Goodbye our dear mistresses alike
> 
>  
> 
> Quand on est engagé, il faut obéir à sa Majesté !
> 
>  
> 
> When you're in, you've got to obey his Majsety.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \-----------
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> You know the drill, please drop a few words.  
> Imagine my feverish and constant refresh of my inbox. Don't leave me in that state, it's pathetic. 
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter in two weeks : CHANCELADE.  
> Much fight, very boom boom.


	6. CHANCELADE - Guyenne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, beta-ed by the brave and courageous Bean. God bless this precious soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part One : Eminence.**

 

 

 

I don't know how exactly, and who cares after all, but I managed to send the monk away to fetch Father Joseph, and get up on my feet long enough to go back into the rooms.

 

Armand was up and dressed already, looking better once more, and the sight warmed my worn-out skin. He smiled that pure, youthful smile of his again when he saw me, but of course, it was doomed to last for a heartbeat.

 

I sat on the nearest chair, my head spinning, my eyes blurred, and his face crumbled.

 

-”Jean?”

 

 

I let my head hit the backrest of the chair, but I gave all I had to keep my eyes open, because if I didn't, I'd be asleep in seconds.

But there could be no rest for me in this world.

 

Armand knelt next to me, grabbing my hands, asking a lot of questions, none of them I could even hear properly. The sound of my heart, thumping in my ears, covered everything.

 

I didn't reply, I just begged for a kiss, because somehow I knew that as soon as I'd start explaining, there wouldn't be any of that anymore for quite some time. He complied, gentle, but distracted. How soft he was, how warm. All I wanted was lie down in his arms and sleep.

 

But there would be no rest.

 

 

Joseph had just barged in.

 

 

 

Armand let go of my hand and got up, but not as fast as he could have.

 

-”What happened?” The Capuchin hissed.

 

 

He walked straight to Armand, inspecting him from head to fingertips, because of course, he assumed something had happened to _him_. Richelieu shook his hand, said he was fine, and the way his desperate eyes wouldn't leave my face spoke loud enough for Joseph.

 

When I had both looking at me in silence, I sighed, rubbed my eyes with my hands, and told them _everything_.

 

The silence that followed stretched over an eternity.

In fact, I had time to get up, moaning like a wounded animal, and remove my leather and weapons. I felt lighter after that, and I found the strength to keep standing up, meeting their gazes.

 

Joseph was frowning, his eyes distant, weighing odds and possibilities no doubt, and God, those two are definitely of the same species. This insane laughter threatened to swim back to the surface, but I looked over at Armand, and it drowned for good.

 

Armand wasn't calculating, planning or scheming.

 

Armand was glaring at me with wildfire in his eyes, jaw clenched, fingers twitching.

 

 

_Armand was furious._

 

 

-”You are telling me you willfully _provoked_ the fight we have been trying to avoid for **weeks**?” He growled, walking towards me, tense with this dangerous heat I know so well.

 

 

-”I took control over it! ” I hissed, hiding my unease by leaning against the chair. “This place is _filled_ with hundreds of people, a whole damn lot of them traitors, and if Joseph didn't notice them following him from Narbonne to here, what are our chances to notice them now?”

 

 

The monk winced, throwing Armand an apologetic look, but the Cardinal didn't even turn to him.

 

He was looming over me, restrained anger almost shaking him. His thin white lips sealed over insults that hurt just as bad as if spoken out loud, he joined his fingertips below his chest. The red silk seemed to whisper hexes and curses at my very name, and I knew those eyes, those ruthless, frozen eyes looking down at me with something worse than hatred.

 

The eyes of a man who carved France in blood and burnt flesh.

 

_Richelieu._

 

He spoke to me and to me alone, his voice tense with fury :

 

 

-”Thirty men with **guns** , Treville! And you sent them **right at us**!”

 

 

The use of my last name thrust a dagger into my heart, because I knew he didn't do it to make a show for Joseph, he did it to _hurt_. His hands seemed to crawl away from me in sheer disgust, and he was straightening his back, using that powerful, towering stance he uses at the Louvres when he speaks to lesser men. The agony in my chest was beyond words.

 

 

-”My men will be in Chancelade.” I still spat out. “The fight won't be an unfair one.”

 

 

At this, my back hit the wall behind me with bruising force.

I cried out in sharp pain.

 

Richelieu had grabbed my shirt and pushed me backwards with inhumane strength.

 

-” **What if they aren't?** ” The Red Man shouted.

 

 

My stomach turned to lead.

 

 

Because in that menacing, terrifying man, there was no Armand anymore.

_My Armand didn't exist._

 

 

I know that man, of course, I've seen him countless times in Paris, as he barked his disdain at one of his spies who made a mistake, as he screamed at the evening sky because he uncovered one more treason. I've seen him once or twice, mad with hatred, striding in corridors, grabbing bigger, taller men by their collars and tearing them apart until they begged.

 

I know why the Dukes are scared enough to want him dead, I know why millions of lives depend on which letter he decides to write, I know that fear in the King's own eyes sometimes.

 

I know why there is so much power into only one man.

 

I know du Plessis Richelieu.

 

 

I don't think I ever saw his rage aimed right at me, that's all.

 

 

-”What if they failed to find evidence, what if their recklessness got them killed, what if the King _hesitates_ for one more week, did you think about that, you Gascon **idiot**?”

 

My breath hitched, and I didn't even try to fight him back, because no, of course not, I hadn’t thought about that. Someone told me once, _that's not the way I think._

 

Do you know that someone, _Eminence_?

 

 

 

-”Eminence.”

 

 

 

This wasn't my voice. This was Joseph's.

 

He quietly appeared behind Richelieu's back, laying a careful hand on his arm, whispering in a soft, preacher's voice :

 

-”Let him go, Eminence. He's right. This place isn't safe at all. No place is. The Duke's men were in Narbonne and I didn't know. They're moving faster than our informants by now. We can't avoid the fight anymore. The Captain's move, as bold as it may be, gave us at least some influence on it.”

 

I saw something on the verge of breaking into the Red Man's eyes, but he released me and spun around before I could know what it was.

 

His forceful push left me abruptly, and with my drained legs unprepared, I limply fell on my knees in Joseph's robes. The priest faltered, uncertain, then strangely, chose to kneel at my side rather than help me up. I still don't know why.

 

 

-”Are you sure they believed you?” he gently asked while Richelieu paced wildly around the room.

 

 

-”Yes.” I nodded, my voice almost too weak to be heard. “But we can still use one of the Abbey's secret passages as precaution. One of them leads far enough into the forest to the East. The Carriage can exit Fontfroide by the main door and serve as a decoy for ambushes, making a wide circle around the Abbey and pick up the Cardinal when we're sure no one was waiting.”

 

Joseph approved, a bit impressed maybe, and after a short pause, couldn't seem to resist asking further :

 

-”How many secret passages did you find, exactly?”

 

His voice was careful enough to be very clear about what he was thinking about. He knew one of them also lead right into his study. I looked up into his dark, clever eyes and breathed :

 

-” _All of them_.”

 

 

There wasn't need for more.

He smiled furtively, and this time he helped me up.

 

 

-”Sit down, please, Captain Treville,” He urged me, loud enough for Richelieu to freeze in his steps; “you're obviously _exhausted._ ”

 

 

He pushed me back into the chair, that smart grey devil, and by the look on the Cardinal's eyes, Joseph’s wide-open gentleness was stirring something in him. Richelieu's stance was still scornful, but his anger was wavering.

Not enough to look at me, but enough to let the priest walk back to him.

 

Enough to let him speak.

 

-” The Captain knows what he's doing, Eminence. If he says his men are up to the task, they must be. And if they are in Chancelade when you arrive, they will protect you.”

 

The Cardinal rolled his eyes, exasperated, and I failed to see why by then.

So did Joseph, obviously, as he went on, sighing.

 

-”And if they aren't, you know the Captain will lay down his life to keep you safe at all costs.”

 

-” **Exactly!** ” Richelieu cried suddenly, turning away to the window in a whirl of blood red snakes.

 

He stood in front of the view, arms crossed, and the warm sunlight upon his worried face reminded me of La Rochelle.

 

So long, _so long ago._

 

 

-”Exactly.” He said again in a quieter, almost broken voice, and we both finally realized what he meant by that.

 

 

God, he wasn't even afraid for himself.

He was mad at me because he couldn't bear the thought of _my own death._

 

 

-”Armand...” I let out, without an idea of what to say.

 

-” _Shut it._ ” He spat.

 

 

I obeyed.

 

 

 

 

Joseph stared at us both in concern, and though I’m sure there isn’t a King, an Emperor or a God he can’t negotiate a treaty with, he bloody well looked like he had no idea how to speak to us at the time. He sighed once more, his eyes to the heavens above, and grabbed Richelieu's sleeve with firm authority, pulling him to the door.

 

-“Come with me.” He ordered. “You need to eat something, take a medicine, discuss what's next, and _let him sleep_.”

 

As they passed me by I felt tempted to talk again, but this time the priest shushed me like a child and nodded towards the bed.

 

The door banged shut.

 

Still listening to the ghost of their footsteps in dazed shock, I complied in silence, and I don’t think I have ever obeyed so blindly to the Catholic Church.

 

My mind surrendered to exhaustion long before it found peace, but _this_ I can’t really say it never happened before.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-“Captain?” someone says, and I open my eyes, groaning.

 

I feel amazing for ten seconds, I must have slept for some time. But then I search for Armand next to me, find nothing but empty cold sheets, and I remember why.

A sickening wave of hurt and worry squeeze my guts, and I turn around to face the voice that woke me.

Joseph stands alone next to the bed, bearing a bowl filled with something that smells of soup, a spoon, and a sorry face.

 

I sit up, take the bowl and spoon with a nod, grumbling:

 

-“I suppose he still won’t talk to me.”

 

The priest throws his hands in the air, and all is said.

 

-“ He’s giving a Mass in the Church.” He still adds. “I told him four times at least how absurd it was to be mad at a soldier because he wanted to fight, but this stubborn fool loses all sense when it comes to _you_.”

 

I dart a look up at him. Yes, I heard right. He doesn’t even pretend he doesn’t know about Armand and me. He looks genuinely more irritated by Richelieu’s obstinacy than anything else, but how can I be sure, that man is a riddle.

 

 

 

I eat up in silence, words and faces coming back to dance before me from this early morning. Shreds of sentences and smiles, handshakes and narrow looks. When I have turned and weighted each and every one of them until I’m fed up with myself, I look for Joseph, quietly arranging Armand's papers back into the trunks, and sigh:

 

-“ Is my plan right?”

 

He doesn’t spare a glance for me, clapping a trunk close with one firm hand.

 

-“ No.” he spits.

 

 

I bite my lips, lowering my head into my empty bowl.

 

-“ Your plan is foolish and far too dangerous.” He adds, striding towards my bed to take it out of my hands. “ You are running headfirst into a bear’s mouth, and if your men are the slightest bit less reliable than you think, the odds of you surviving are _wretched_ . Not only you will die like a dog up there, but I can’t even think of what they’ll do to _him_ before they slit his throat.”

 

_Oh God._

 

I wish I could groan but it sounds like a bloody whimper. I rub my face with my both hands, pictures of my Armand broken and torn beneath Spanish hands torturing my mind. His blood into the dust, his skin ripped open. His lifeless eyes staring at the southern skies.

 

 

Like the doves of yesterday.

 

 

My Armand, so thin, so tired, _what have I done?_

 

 

I bite my thumb, looking at the window to hide the panic in my face, but there’s a hand on my shoulder, and it’s not as harsh as it could be.

 

-“ Nevertheless…” I hear the priest whisper.

 

I turn to him, meeting this dark stare and finding quiet wisdom there.

 

-“ That’s the only thing you could do.” Joseph nods.

 

 

I close my eyes, thankful. I let go of a shaking breath, and when I open them again, I just hope he doesn't take my worry as weakness.

 

-”I swear they won't succeed.” I rasp, my words steadier than I feared. “I'll die for that. I'll die for him.”

 

The Capuchin's eyebrows shoot up at the absolute resolve in my clenched fists, and he chuckles with a sad, indulgent huff. He may be tired, or it may be summer daylight burning bright through the windows, but as his hand gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, I think his eyes are glowing.

 

-”I know, my boy I know.” He mumbles. “So would I, but I have seen too many winters, and spent too few of them learning how to fight. I wish I could go with you, but I'd only be a burden.”

 

 

With that, he lets out a distressed sigh, sweeping a bitter gaze around the room, and walking back to the door with that empty bowl in his hands.

 

As he opens the door, he throws distractedly over his shoulder :

 

-”There are in all four muskets and fifty bullets in this Abbey. I had them loaded in your carriage already. Maybe you'll find some use for them. Bother Simon told me you asked for what's left of the gunpowder, you have it too. Get dressed and meet us in the Church, you leave in one hour.”

 

 

 

He closes the door behind him, and before I realize what I am doing, I think I reach out, grab that white fur coverlet, and cross my arms tight upon for a long, long time.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Church is a tall, spacious place, with very few sculptures, but glorious paintwork on the walls, in pure roman style. Saints, animals, fruits and flowers, God, pretty much everything.

Those joyful colors seem to vibrate with the songs of the monks in the nave, and it's nothing short of a tribute to the soft voice reading the Corinthian epistle on the altar.

 

Armand speaks slowly, with gentle emphasis on some words, his thin fingertips following the lines of a huge ornate bible on a lectern in front of him. The monks, converts and pilgrims sitting in the Church listen in rapture, none of them even daring to cough. It's beautiful, and I wish I had enough peace of mind to listen properly. But worry is biting my guts, and all I can do is _hear_ him.

 

My heavy boots make far too much noise as I walk in, even if I make the shortest way towards a thick pillar on the side of the Church. Armand, his speech unmoved, lifts his head, looks straight at me, and goes back to the Bible with an exasperated frown. I look down, crushed by his presence once more.

 

He reads the epistle, a David psalm, and even speaks a few words of thanks for the hospitality of Fontfroide, no doubt as the Abbot begged him to. The choir of monks sing with dedication once more, and Richelieu gives a few blessings.

 

The bells ring, so loud it makes me flinch.

 

It's time to leave.

 

 

 

Followed by a delighted pack of monks, Armand walks out of the Church, without of course a single glance for me. I grit my teeth.

 

I'm not bitter, _of course I'm not._

I have pictured myself dying for him a few times.

 

Not with him hating my guts for it, that's all.

 

 

 

Father Joseph, who was waiting at the door of the Church, grabs Richelieu's sleeve and discretely drags him away in the study. He'll lead him outside through a secret passage a bit later. I won't see one more glimpse of them for hours.

 

The Abbot, according to Joseph's orders, gathers the monks in the courtyard where I walk. The carriage is ready, Jussac at the reins.

Right behind it, my horse, saddled and stamping.

 

I mount, my whole body protesting in pain, both sharp and dulled.

 

The monks bid us farewell, some of them quite skeptical, but they're all disciplined enough to make it look like Richelieu is officially leaving to anyone looking through the windows. I nod my thanks to the Abbot, and whistle at Jussac.

 

The whip cracks.

The dice are cast.

 

 

 

We exit Fontfroide in loud noise. I gallop around the empty carriage, watching the hills around, trying not to think too much of what would happen if Clermont didn't believe in my treachery, and had the Spaniards meet us on the road.

 

We take a wide route around the Abbey, and at every bloody breath I take, I expect my heart to be pierced by a bullet. It's alright, it's alright. Soldiers are born to die, nothing to cry about.

 

I wished I would have held his hands, that's all.

 

 

 

 

But by some kind of miracle, as the sun begins to set on the lands of Languedoc, we ride back to the woods around Fontfroide unharmed, and find the small tunnel where Joseph and Armand await us. The anguished face of the grey man is the first one I see, peeking outside the tunnel, spotting us, and lifting his eyes to the sky with a small cry of joy.

 

The priest insists on helping Armand out upon the slippery mud of the woods, and through the Cardinal's stance remains made of pure disdain, I still feel more than I see his sigh of relief as he looks up at me.

Maybe there's hope for me not to die without a kind word.

 

 

Joseph opens the carriage door for Richelieu, and before he pushes him inside, he grabs his hand, kisses it in raw devotion, whispering a few Latin words.

Calling him Eminence once more.

 

_Never an official title had meant so much love._

 

 

 

Armand, his eyes troubled, doesn't seem to find his words, so he lets out a small laugh instead, and whispers something about how nice it would be to have him for dinner in Paris next week. Joseph smiles, and for Christ's sake, so do I.

 

The Capuchin still lets out a strangled sob as he bangs the door shut.

 

 

I let my horse walk closer, then, and shake his hand. We discuss a few details once more, and it's perfectly useless, there's nothing left to talk about. But he still looks like he needs to speak to me, and I like the feeling.

 

-”Go, then.” He nods at some point, taking one half-hearted step back. “Do what you must, be who you are.”

 

I try to give him a reassuring smile, but there's a little bit of Richelieu in those dark eyes, and I can't fool such a man.

 

As I spur my horse, he seems to hesitate, then suddenly grabs my boot, hissing :

 

-”Watch out for him.”

 

I roll my eyes, huffing:

 

-” _What do you think I'll be doing?_ ”

 

-”Not the enemies, not their guns, you Gascon war horse, I know you will deal with that!” He grumbles.

 

He pauses, darting a glance at the carriage with a deep frown of worry, and adds in a lower, choked voice :

 

-”Watch out for blood in his mouth when he coughs. Because if blood comes, my boy, no matter how many soldiers you kill, no matter how many blades and arrows you protect him from, there would be no more hope for him.”

 

 

I clench my jaw on a cry.

 

_No._

 

 

No, not that. Not after all he's done, all he went through. Not after all he _survived_ , please.

Not that, we both have been lonely all our lives.

 

Not that, I haven't even learned all of his smiles.

 

 

I shake my head in denial, and I can't bear to look at Joseph's desperate face.

 

-”He's alright now.” I whisper. “We're all alive today. That's all I know for sure.”

 

 

And I whistle sharply once more. The carriage starts moving, and I know Joseph understands why I just ride away fast, my eyes turned firmly towards the road ahead.

 

 

Behind us, dimmed by the distance, the bells of Fontfroide ring, singing praise for a God who made this world such a cruel, wretched place.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Part Two : Everything.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

We follow a route that Armand makes up from Joseph's maps as we move. It's intricate and almost absurd, but quite impossible to predict. There won't be any stage anymore, we must hurry. Jussac and I will keep on taking short naps in turns, and we'll hide in the woods for three nights.

 

It's all bloody exhausting, and if that acidic pool of worry wasn't enough, Richelieu barely looks at me during the first forty miles. He's just throwing instructions at me from time to time, sometimes shouting them from the carriage window. The hurt in my chest is sucking the life out of me.

 

I still manage to carry on until our first night camp, quite late and quite cold, deep into the forest of Camarès.

 

Jussac lights a small wood fire, too humble to be noticed, and mostly made to warm up Armand's tea, because his headaches haven't left him since Fontfroide. Then, the brave man devours three slices of bread and dried meat, chooses a spot between the roots of a dead tree, and with a joyful nod to us both, wraps himself in his cloak and sleeps like a child.

 

Richelieu sits on a small stool we brought along, his hands around his goblet of herbs, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and he looks like he feared this moment more than anything else. He threw his black cloak upon his shoulders, as his red robes are too easy to spot in the woods, even in the dark. It makes his face look paler, his eyes brighter.

 

Still beautiful.

He'll always be.

 

 

God' I don't want to see doomsday upon us without a touch of those lips, _to Hell with his anger._

 

 

I come to sit on the ground next to him, and as he stands up to leave, I grab his arm forcefully and pull him back on the stool. He sits down with a grunt of disapproval, but doesn't try anything else.

A few moments of stormy silence spread between us, and after a while I breathe:

 

-”Spit it out.”

 

 

-”Spit out what?” He snaps, still not turning towards me.

 

 

-”Everything.” I hiss. “Insult me, rip me apart, berate every shred of what I am, but for God's sake, let’s get over with it.”

 

Rage narrow his eyes for a second, and he opens his mouth. I brace myself as I would for a hundred soldiers charging at me, except that it could be _much worse_.

 

But nothing comes. He’s staring up into the thick trees, his breath a bit short, his fingers gripping his cup tight. He stays like that, unmoving, until my hand on his arm shifts a little. Only then he turns to me and whispers:

 

 

-“How could you do this to me?”

 

 

I stammer, at loss, but he doesn’t give me time to search for a reply:

 

 

-“Need I remind you who exactly I am, Jean?” He hisses, his furious gaze piercing me, his voice barely low enough to let Jussac sleep. “Do you know anything about the misery of being hated by five entire countries, including the one you struggle to serve? Can you picture twenty years in this huge populous desert the Louvres is, being nothing more than some useful nuisance, the _necessary evil of France?_ Do you have any idea what my days, my nights looked like? And now that I have you, you mindless fool, now that I had a glimpse of you, you think of nothing else than **marching to death**!”

 

He passes a hand upon his lips in anguish, and his eyes wander into the trees again.

 

God, the state of him, it’s dreadful. Though it’s not his anger I find frightening. It’s not the burning intensity of his feelings, or the harsh tone of his voice.

 

It’s the fact that he’s being absurd, he’s _wrong_ , and he knows it.

 

 

“ _He loses all sense when it comes to you.”_

 

 

I don’t dare to touch him yet, I just leave my hand on his arm and give him a soft squeeze.

 

-“I don’t _want_ to die, Armand.” I reason him gently. “I want to fight your enemies and protect you the only way I can. I’m good at this, you know I am. You’ve seen me fight hundreds of battles, in endless wars or in vain duels. You’ve seen me facing death again and again all those years, what is different now?”

 

 

-“ _Everything_.”

 

 

 

He closes his eyes in distress, and I know what he means of course.

But it makes no sense, Armand. Wars are wars, battles are battles. You know the world won’t change its rules this time just because you’re in love. Ask all the crying widows of France about how war didn’t care about the warmth in their hearts.

 

Ask all the widows your letters made about how the State couldn't care less.

 

Ask the wives of La Rochelle.

 

 

 

I sigh, and this time I softly cup his cheek to turn his face towards me as I breathe:

 

-“I’m afraid too, you know.”

 

He lets out a dark laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.  
Hell, he _really_ thinks I’m some kind of superior being, doesn’t he?

 

Well, he shouldn’t. I am afraid. I am bloody petrified. But I know what to do with fear. I know how to greet her as an old friend, and gently step upon it to get a higher view. I smile at Armand, the way I smile at my boys when their steps falter as the war drums rumble. Don’t give death a sad face, I always tell them.

 

They find courage in my smile, and that’s all that matters, because Lord knows deep inside I’m afraid _every time_.

 

 

-“But that doesn’t mean I’m dead yet.” I whisper.

 

 

And I kiss him, as gentle as I can, but he stiffens and shifts away, standing up in a whirl of soft fabric, oh for God’s sake, _what more do you need?_

 

 

-“Armand, _enough_ !” I hiss, standing up also and grabbing his shoulders. “We can do this; do you hear me? Our plan worked, the King needs you, and my men will be there. And even without any of this, well, look at me! I’m here, _I am here_.”

 

His eyes are open wide, red-rimmed and drained, but when my hands slowly slide up to his face again, he doesn’t fight anymore.

 

-“Don’t you trust me, Armand?” I caress with all the faith I can pour into simple words.

 

 

He nods. He didn’t even hesitate one second. He spares a glance for Jussac’s sleeping form, and I shrug. His whole body seems to let go of a painful tension, then, and he throws his arms around me, burying his face into my neck. He’s holding me with such a strength I almost struggle to breathe. But I let him do it, because he’s cold despite the cloak, and I may help with that. I even press him against me, so he can feel how real, how eager I am.

 

It lasts for a long time, Armand refusing to release me, as if letting go would mean I’ll be swallowed by darkness. But at some point, he allows me to push him back just enough to kiss him again, this time melting into me with a moan. He opens his lips, letting his deft tongue stroke mine, and my mind threatens to blur quickly, because that’s how it is with him, he drives me _insane_ every time. Through the thick layers of clothes, I feel his slender frame pressed into mine, and my skin screams for his again.

 

Yet death is crawling in the shadow of our footsteps, and someone must keep watch.

 

 

I gently push him back further, laying one last kiss on the corner of his mouth, and nodding towards the carriage.

 

-“Go get some sleep.” I say, my breath far too short. “You may not want it, but you need it.”

 

 

He looks like he could argue, but with a quick flinch of resignation, he slides away from me.  
I’m left standing in the dark near a dying fire, and well, he was right.

 

 

It’s a bit cold tonight.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Three : Angry skies of Guyenne.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three days and four hours.

Not a single hour more, exactly as Armand planned, following that map covered in Joseph’s writing.

 

 

We left the thick forests of Languedoc two days ago for wheat plains, scattered villages and sunlit woods. The lands of Guyenne are much more inhabited, alive with merchant fairs, festivals, dancing and processions. We carefully avoided them, but we could see from afar wealthy cities, magnificent churches. The weather is far less clement than in the South, but the sturdy houses and peaceful cattle don't seem to mind much.

 

 

And suddenly, as we cross a wooden bridge into the lands of Chancelade one fine morning, something dreadful happens.

 

 

In a few miles, the wide roads turn into dusty pathways of roots and rocks, the joyful and lively lands of Guyenne change into miserable farms, barren fields, and tired, hungry people barely lifting their head as we pass by. Those might be the poorest villages I've ever seen, and God, I've seen a lot. Armand told me the Duke of Guyenne squeezes twice as much taxes out of his people as the other Lords, hoping to raise an army and march on Paris once Cinq-Mars’ plot succeeds. The wicked fop promised him half of France if he did. The wealthier cities are broad-shouldered enough, but Chancelade, separate from any merchant road, without any castle, Bishopric or even a small town to draw any interest from outside its borders, is basically _starving_.

 

Hell, this whole area could burn to ashes, no one in Paris would even know.

 

 

 

Nobody cares about Chancelade.

A fitting place to hide.

 

 

 

I sigh, sweeping a bitter gaze upon the subtle hills, the dispersed oaks, the innocent and lonely skyline we're riding towards.

 

 

Those three days wouldn't have been so exhausting, if they weren't the last three days of those last three weeks. Nothing happened, nothing much, but I left Fontfroide tired, and the short naps and watch shifts did nothing to help. Jussac is no better, though this extraordinary man could laugh with his arms cut off. The horses are strong and tough, but their legs are drained, two of them are limping, and one of them will need to be put down soon.

 

My own horse, a thick and resistant dark brown mare, has been a bloody miracle. She soundlessly put up with my circles and detours around the carriage, my reconnaissance gallops ahead, my chaotic exploring of the woods around.

 

On the third morning, I called her Minerva, and Armand told me it was just like me to choose a pagan name.

 

 

_Armand._

The watch for enemies or intruders is something I'm used to. It's tiresome, but it's easy. I know the way, like old dogs do. I sniff the air, I feel the wind. My hand on my sword, my eyes everywhere, expecting death as you expect someone for dinner.

 

Watching for sickness is a _nightmare_.

Sickness is a ghost, sickness is a snake. It hides away in darkness, and you let hope bloom in your heart. You touch a soft, warm skin, you hear steady breathing, and you sleep in peace.

You wake up three hours later, there's burning fever and glassy eyes, cries of pain, wretched cough.

 

Armand has been brave all along, enduring tremendous pain in absolute silence.

After that first camp in Camaré, he even started to prepare and bring food himself for Jussac and me, starting fires, serving us wine. He said that there were no more informants to meet, no more evidence to gather. ' _I'm useless in every other way_ ' he said, ' _I can't just sit there, can I?_ '. If we didn't forbid him to walk away from our sight using growls and threats, he'd have gone in the woods to gather sticks, weak with fever and shortness of breath. I could have laughed, if worry hadn't twisted my insides for so long.

 

I made him take that medicine Joseph gave him, but it only repelled the pain for a few hours. I made him rest, I made him eat and drink.

 

All of it as good as dancing for rain.

 

Sickness is a ghost, sickness is a snake.

Sickness has its own will.

 

I watched for blood with terror in my heart, every time he coughed. I watched his hands, I watched his lips. The blood didn't come, but worry drained my mind.

 

 

Sometimes, as I rode, without a reason, without a warning, tears rolled on my face, my chest shaking, and I wiped them away with my sleeve, cursing at the skies, dismissing this growing madness with a shudder.

 

Armand needed me standing.

 

 

 

_Armand._

Every time his shift began, Jussac insisted I slept in the carriage. He spoke about the privileges of rank, laughing at my refusals, and I think I caught him _winking at me_ , once.

Well, if God grants us life after all this chaos, at least I'd have earned a friend.

 

My refusals were short-lived.

 

 

 

Armand almost cheered at the idea, and unfolded both seats for me every time, laying down his cloak as a blanket, literally _tucking me_ into sleep. He let me rest without a move at first, quietly reading at my side, or spending time outside with Jussac. But as Chancelade grew closer, his strength weakened by his jagged health, he felt the need to stay with me stronger than the rest.

 

At the end of the second day as I laid on my side, wrapped into his coat, he drew all the curtains and laid down behind me on the bench seat, his arms encircling my chest, holding me tight. He was barely recovering from another fever, his skin was still burning, and I felt his head against my shoulder, drenched with sweat. Concern still bit my guts to pieces, but I welcomed that warmth like sunlight. I fell asleep to the soft sound of his voice, speaking sweet nothings, praising the hero he thinks I am, whispering unnamed prayers.

_Singing that old soldiers song again._

 

 

It had been the same for the next watch. Jussac taking his shift, Armand spreading his cloak on the bench, and me crawling into his arms to find peace for a while. Armand softly whispering in my ear, words of love and bits of nonsense alike. Anything but the battles to be fought, anything but the possible futures. I remember I spoke to God, half-asleep, asking him why Armand's thin, supple body fitted so perfectly against mine, if He meant this to be wrong.

Strange, how Armand often wondered if loving me would save him from Hell.

Well, as death was stepping on our tails that morning, I wondered if loving him would ban me from Heaven.

 

 

On the third day, as he felt somewhat better, he pushed me until I laid on my back, and moved on top of me. He had unbuttoned his robes, but kept them on, and the cascade of blood red silk covering us both reminded me of happier days.

I was tired, that's true, but he was bloody _gorgeous_. My hands roamed upon his soft white skin, and he kissed me hungrily. I remember he didn't want us to make too much noise, and was afraid to shake the carriage. Pointless or not, I spared him the trouble of telling him we didn't need to hide from Jussac anymore.

I let him undress me, halfway through, just enough to get what he wanted. He licked and bit around my neck, muffling my cries with his hand, and spread some kind of oil between us, where did he even get that? I wanted to ask, but I forgot as he started to move. Slowly, expertly, rubbing our cocks together in deep, rhythmic thrusts. My eyes rolled back, I grabbed the sides of his face.

He almost did all the work, his eyes holding on to mine all along, his slick shaft against mine sending shudders of raw pleasure up my spine. It was simple, and it was quick, but it felt wonderful, his radiant, glassy stare into mine, his parted lips breathing scattered words, or just my name.

The red silk hissed as he moved, and the caress of the soft fabric on my bare skin is the best thing I've ever known.

It wasn't much, we were both tired. I let out a small cry as I came far too soon, and he followed me three moves later, strangling his moan into my neck.

It wasn't much, but it was perfect, and I stifled a sigh at the thought that it might have been our last time.

 

 

During the three last shifts, the fever came back again, crushing him into a hazed state, and he was too sick to even lift a hand as I laid down next to him. I had to sleep listening to the miserable sound of his wheezing breath.

 

 

 

 

 

The journey is almost over this morning, but his condition hasn't improved much, and that cursed yellow dust covering every bloody inch of these lands isn't helping at all.

He's still brave, still patient, but in truth, barely moving. He stopped reading a few hours ago, to just sit limply, his gaze distant. Immobile, but restless. My worry has turned to dread, and there's nothing I can do about it.

 

 

I make my horse walk closer to the windows, and knock on the door. He notices me with a faint smile. His eyes are circled by two shades of red, and suffering is written harshly upon his face, but that's still him, sitting up with a flinch, yet sitting up quickly.

 

He lowers the window and points the horizon to our left.

A humble bell tower is daring a peek above a large line of oak trees.

 

Chancelade.

 

 

-”Fate is five miles away, Jean.” He speaks, and the surprising steadiness of his voice fills my chest with warmth.

 

 

-”My men will be there.” I assure. “They will not fail. There hadn’t been a time when they did. »

 

Well, I’m not lying. They do make a mess, they do give me headaches twice a month, and half of the fatigue I feel growing in my bones with age has their names pinned on it. But every time, through hell and through muddy waters, my boys managed to do the right thing. I could say I trained them well, but that would be stupid. I merely gave directions. They ran by themselves.

I never made any man a better one. You are born a Musketeer, or you aren’t.

 

I hide a fond huff by wiping the dirt on my face with the back of my hand.  
I bloody won’t be unhappy to see them again.

 

I’m tired, so tired now.

I have this strange feeling, coming back from ancient times, but I can’t tell exactly what it is.

 

I snap out of that slow shiver of exhaustion, looking back at Armand inside the carriage. His eyes are fixed upon the timid silhouette of the Abbey, mistrust and anguish straining his features. I tap on the door again and as he looks back at me I smile, the way I smile as war drums roll.

 

He seems to consider smiling back, but he just sighs, his stare heavy with a thousand emotions, and slumps on his seat, biting his thumb, oh Armand, _please_.

 I cannot stand the merciless doubt in those tired eyes.

 

-"Draw the curtains",I tell him. "If the monks are still inside, they’ll make a fuss over you. We don’t need that."

 

He complies with a short nod. With a last glance made of raw torment, he conceals himself.

 Good.

 

I gather my own faith, from deep within my heart, hold it tight in my clenched fists, and spur Minerva ahead. She gallops past the carriage, and bravely climbs the narrow road to the Abbey. This sinking, empty feeling, when did I know it before ? In which war, which battlefield ? I had so many.

 

My gaze holds on to the bell tower, because if my boys are there, that’s where one of them must be keeping watch. If one of them is keeping watch, he must have spotted us by now, and as I ride closer, the gates should open upon their young and lively faces.

 

God, I’ll be glad to hear about their mess again. I’ll gladly take one of those headaches, I swear.

 

I’m so tired now.

 

The dusty road ends, as everything ends sooner or later, and I stop in front of the thick oak gates. I hear noises and voices behind them, and as they’re slowly pulled open from inside, I suddenly recognize the feeling.

 

It’s the slow, muffled terror clawing at your guts when a powder barrel exploded right in the middle of your regiment, and you’re waiting for the smoke to fall. You stare at the grey cloud, waiting, helpless, until you can see whatever remains, walking men or dead bodies, friends or foes, cannons or arrows.

 

I’ve never been a coward, not once in my life, but as the wooden doors creak, my gaze drops on the dirty ground by a will of its own. I’ll hear their voices call my name, then I’ll look up. I’ll look peaceful, almost smiling, and they’ll cheer.

 

I’ll hear their voices.

_Won’t I ?_

 

 

-"Who are you ?"

 

 

 

 

 

_**No.** _

  
I let out a raspy whimper, my shoulders drop.

 

I don’t even need to look up, I know.

_I know._

 

 

I turn around towards the carriage, approaching thirty yards behind me. I can’t see much of Jussac’s face, but what I see is enough. He’s pale, and for once, I don't think he's smiling.

 

I pass a blurry stare upon the pretty, yet lonely lands of the Abbey. The small unkept woods, the shapeless farms. The skinny cattle, almost lost, almost wild, and this bloody dust painting everything in pale yellow.

 

 

Nobody cares about Chancelade.

_A fitting place to die._

 

 

 

 

 

 

I slowly turn my head back to the gates. Four monks are watching me with shock and mild fear, and if they had seen one Musketeer before in their lives, they wouldn't be gaping so much.

 

Armand's blood in the yellow dirt.

His lifeless eyes up to the skies.

 

Ripped open, torn to shreds.  
  
_Like the doves of Fontfroide._

 

 

 

Without thinking, my voice dull and monotone, I state my name, my rank, speak about an important matter of state and ask for the Abbot.

Impressed, they let me in with hurried bows and greetings.

 

 

As I ride into the small courtyard a whirl of cold wind slaps me in the face with a handful of dirt. It doesn't hurt that much, of course, but deep inside, no idea where, a part of me breaks. I dismount, shuddering, and pat the brave mare's neck. Then I grab her soft head, lean my brow against hers, and God, I don't think I ever _cried_ this way.

 

I scream at myself, what sight do I give, I'm supposed to be fearless.

But I can't stop myself. I'm shaking in soundless sobs, and I feel my cheeks drenched in tears, salt water mixing with dirt into a thick mud.

 

_I can’t even think of what they’ll do to him before they slit his throat._

 

God, what have I done?

My Armand, so tired, so thin.

 

 

 

It lasts for an eternity, it lasts for a moment.

It lasts until Minerva lets out a soft rumble, and I lift my head up to look at her.

 

Strange, how horses and dogs always seem to understand.

She shakes her ears, sending clouds of dust into the wind, and tilts her head to the side. I chuckle darkly, patting her neck again. You're right, you're right, we made it so far.

 

We made it so far.

 

 

I wipe my cheeks with my hand, and face the monks with an awkward frown.

The carriage has stopped behind them, and the gates are closed upon us. Jussac jumps on the floor and runs to the carriage door, blocking it with a firm hand. Clever man.

 

The Abbot runs towards me, distressed, but I won't want speeches.

I'm tired, that's all.

 

 

I ask how many they are in the Abbey, and God, they look at each other and say everyone's here. Four monks and one Abbot.

 

 

Nobody cares indeed.

 

 

I tell them the Abbey has been requisitioned by order of the King, and produce a false letter Armand and Joseph forged together in Fontfroide. They could both hang for this, but we're way past that point by now. It works, that's all that matters. The monks gasp in horror, stammer a few questions, but I dismiss each and every one of them. I give them one hour to pack their things and walk to the nearest village. They dart anguished looks at the carriage, no doubt wondering what precious guest I am hiding from them. Well, take a wild guess, for all I care. I don't think you'll get it right in a thousand years anyways. To make it all end faster, I pull out some money from the Royal Treasury, and place it in the Abbot's hands.  
  
All questions cease.

 

 

By the looks on their faces, I must sound terrifying or insane, and that may have helped a bit.

 

 

Neither Jussac nor I move an inch until they've all left the Abbey.

And even after that, we both wait for a couple of minutes, listening to the wind dancing in the dust.

 

 

Jussac seems to shiver, and is the first to blink out of it.

He opens the carriage door, and I step closer.

I'm not ready for his sentence, his frozen voice, the disdain in his eyes, God knows I'm not.

 

 

But this is _Armand_ , I won't avoid him. I never will.

I deserve everything he'll say. Who knows, I may even need it.

 

 

I put one foot on the running board, extend a hand to help him out.

Meet his stare and gasp.

 

 

 

He hasn't moved.

 

He's still laying limply on the seat, his eyes half-closed, biting his thumb. His face is blank, a bit lost, and he doesn't look like he has one shred of strength in him.

No, don't give up, Armand. Shout at me, curse my name, walk upon me, kick me forward, but do something, please.

 

If we both kneel, we're as good as dead.

 

 

-”Cardinal?” I breathe.

 

I reach out to him further.

He lays unmoving for a few endless minutes, his empty eyes fixed somewhere into the folds of my cloak, then he slowly puts his hand in mine, _God, he's cold._

 

He gracefully steps out, sweeping a vague look upon the small Abbey. It's a low sturdy church, with a plain building stuck to its right side, and a wooden barn built up against the wall next to the gate on the left. The wall, five yards high no more, runs around the Abbey, drawing a vague square upon the hill. That's all. As if someone had decided to build a church in the middle of a farm. Clear, grey stone, no ornament no luxury.

 

 

Even God doesn't seem to have noticed this place.

 

Armand doesn't let go of my hand.

His pale eyes looking up in raw sunlight, at that bell tower fighting against time.

The wind is hurling dust upon his robes, making them flap against his legs.

 

I know, I know, not the place you imagined it all to end.

I wanted a glorious battlefield, maybe you wished for your bed.

In a long long time.

 

Well, perhaps the King did hesitate, or my men met their fate somewhere on the road. Maybe in Paris Cinq-mars hid his correspondence too well. Whatever the reason may be, my dearest love, it seems none of us gets to choose.

 

 

 

“ _Adieu tous nos parents,  
“Adieu mêmement nos chères maîtresses._

 

 

 

 

I let out a shaking breath.

His robes flap, as the last flag planted on my own mistakes.

 

 

 

-”Let's get inside, shall we? If I eat more of that dirt I won't be hungry for supper!”

 

 

 

 

We both jump and turn towards that joyful voice.

Jussac contemplates our stunned faces and _laughs_. God, he laughs, and the wind himself keeps it down for a while. He leads the horses inside the barn with soft tutting sounds, makes sure they have hay and water, then leads us to the building with a confident, peaceful stance. Armand does let go of my hand to follow him in, but he doesn't walk much more than two yards away from me all along.

 

The heavy, ancient doors open up on a small hall, and this building is so simple I could draw a map of it without a first check. Let me guess, kitchens below, dormitories above, dining room to the left, office and scriptorium to the right. White cob everywhere, a few sad and lifeless paintings, obviously not the best you could get, even in these poor lands.

 

Jussac pushes the door to the left, hah. Of course.

A large dining room, as cheerless as can be, welcomes us with a smell of old soup and wet wood.

Two rows of plain tables, four bunks, and a small hearth where the monks forgot a weak wood fire. That's all.

 

The guard whistles, his eyes up to the massive wooden Christ hanging from the ceiling by heavy chains, looming over it all with a somber face.

 

-”Monks sure know how to have fun.” He chuckles.

 

 

Then he coughs, and spins around to have a short bow for Armand.

 

-”My apologies your Eminence.”

 

 

Richelieu has a dismissive wave of his hand, and by the way he looks at this huge cross of black oak, he's not far from agreeing.

 

 

I, for myself, stare at Jussac in mild wonderment. I know he's just as terrified as I am, I know he has absolutely no hope. I feel the shivers in his bones, because they're echoing my own. And yet, he looks around with a childish smile lifting up his usually quieter face, and it seems to soothe a bit of Armand's despair. Hell, I'll have this man made Lieutenant.

 

He rubs a thick layer of dirt off his cheeks, and looks at me with an open, eager face:

 

-”So, Captain. What do we do?”

 

 

I blink once or twice, inhaling sharply.

There's a suffocating silence, and they're both looking at me.

 

 

“ _Adieu tous nos parents..._

 

_Armand's gaping wounds, pools of his blood drying in the dust._

_Laying broken under merciless winds, torn to shreds by savage hands._

 

**No.**

 

I look over at him, his slender hands joined below his chest, turned towards me with an expecting face. There is dust in his hair, red lines under his eyes, but he's still magnificent, as he once was on the seawall of La Rochelle.

 

No, I can't let them hurt him. I can't let him die. He is the best thing that ever came to look for me in the blank patterns my life had become. I can't just let those bears take that away from me.

 

I need him.

Hell, the whole country does.

 

 

He is France. He is what I'm meant to die for, and if this battlefield is not the most glorious of them all, then I'll bloody make it so.

 

Jussac is right, I am a Musketeer.

Death is coming, but I will not sit and wait.

 

 

Let them come, those thirty men.  
  
_Let them come._

 

 

-”Unload the carriage” I order. “We'll hide the trunks, gather the weapons here. We'll inspect the Abbey for ways in, and see what we can do.”

 

 

Jussac clicks his heels, his whole face beaming strength for a second, and runs outside to face the growing winds. Armand’s gaze follows him through the high windows, and only a slight shaking in his hands show how hopeless he thinks it all is.

 

\- “You need to promote that man.”I let out.

 

\- “Oh I have,” he states, impassive, “five times I think. He always refused. He asked me instead to send money to his parents in Lorraine. He’s of very poor origins. He barged in the Guards’ exercise yard one fine morning, drew a miserable rusty sword and put three men on the ground. I hired him on the spot. He was just about fifteen.”

 

I huff knowingly. All good soldiers’ stories look the same, no matter the regiment, no matter the place, the time. Brave men need no title. Maybe I would have done just as much as Jussac, if my father hadn’t bought himself a land, and the nobility that went with it. I never saw myself as a merchant anyways.

 

I am a Musketeer.

My blood was meant for that yellow dust.

 

 

 

Armand stays silent for a while, then suddenly turns back to me, his eyes drowned into a dark, desperate bitterness, so deep, so raw I feel like the twist of a knife into my guts.

 

-”Do you think it took the King a long time ?" He slowly whispers.

 

-” To do what ?" I gasp.

 

-”To choose Cinq-Mars over me.”

 

I take three steps and grab his sleeve. He’s trembling all over, but he’s holding on, his fingers locked together tight, his jaw clenched upon his inner torture.

 

\- “Armand, that’s not the only possible explanation for this, it could be…”

 

\- “Cinq-Mars is an arrogant _idiot”_ , he cuts in; “ he must have kept evidence in his chambers. Your men are able, they must have found it. We agreed there is no match for them among the Royal Guards. So exactly what else could have happened ?”

 

I sigh, helpless, looking out at the angry winds outside, throwing endless streams of dirt against the windows. Dark clouds are gathering in the North, and the air is heavy and thick, hissing his intent to kill sunlight soon enough. _Your boys are dead_ , it seems to say, _I have dried their blood upon the road. You’re on your own,_ the clouds whisper, _and even God has forgotten this place._

 

 _What will you become_ , the stormy skies sneers.

 

\- “Anything.” I breathe.

 

 

 

Armand’s frown doesn’t fade. He doesn’t believe me, and it physically hurts.

 

Well, I can’t blame him, though, he’s been dreading this moment for years. He knows he spent his life harassing the King, pursuing him as he walked around, pushing papers and diplomats under his nose, speaking for hours of things to do, people to meet, decisions to take. He knows the burden he has been for a childish, frivolous Louis. How tiresome he might have been, reminding him every hour of the day he had a country to rule, a nation to protect.

 

His Eminence Know-it-All.

 

_The necessary evil of France._

 

How sincere he has been, though, is his insane resolve. If Louis could see him now, exhausted and sick, facing death so far from Paris, and still, after all, thinking of him. Richelieu has many names, between what he’s said to be and what he really is, but he’s the best Minister France will ever have, if only Louis could see him.

 

It’s so much more than a position, a title or a function.

 

This man is in love with the harsh, demanding mistress France is, much more than with God, and maybe, sometimes, much more than with me. 

 

His suffering vibrating in my heart, I softly kiss his temple, because words, you see, have never been my trade.

 

 

 

Jussac comes back a few minutes later, carrying four muskets in his arms, and drops them on the large dinner table, under the stern look of the wooden Christ.

 

 

-“There’s a barrel of powder also.” He pants, obviously drained by running. “It’s in the hall.”

 

I think one of my hands in still gripping Armand’s sleeve when the Guard looks up at us, but Richelieu doesn’t move. This, above all else, may be a clear sign of how desperate he truly is. I could let go, for his sake, but, forlorn as it may be, I still find strength in this soft touch.

Jussac doesn’t even seem to notice, smiling brightly at both of us.

 

I gaze at the weapons, biting my lips.

With Fontfroide’s weapons and our own, we have four muskets, two guns, about a hundred bullets, two blades and the barrel.

 

The Spaniards will surely come with thirty guns and as much blades. Maybe crossbows. Nothing heavier, muskets are less handy to horse travel with.

 

The weapons are not the issue here. How many hands we have to handle them is.  
There’s only Jussac and me, we can deal with fifteen men at most, not thirty.

  
We need to reduce the number of Spaniards before they come in, or we’ll be slaughtered like pigs.

 

 

I turn towards the windows, watching the small courtyard with sour focus. Forty yards at most. Nothing to write tales about. I sigh, about to look away, but I notice the main gate I passed earlier in a blur. It’s a massive piece of oak, iron-circled, flanked by two thin watchtowers, both in ruins.

 

The ancient stone looks like it's about to give up on everything, only standing on its own weight.

 

 

_It could work._

 

 

 

It could work, if God deigns to look our way for a while.

 

If God remembers Chancelade.

 

 

Using my hand still grabbing his arm, I gently guide Armand to a bench near the hearth, telling him to wait for us there, and telling him twice, because he does protest a bit.

 

I run outside, shouting at Jussac over my shoulder:

 

 

-“Come with me! Bring the barrel!”

 

 

 

As we rush through the courtyard, the wind whips us right in the chest, taking our breath, slowing our steps. Jussac lifts a concerned face to the darkening skies, the North clouds getting angrier. The air is foul with threat, the trees outside the Abbey creaking in fear.

 

-”Something nasty is coming.” He grumbles.

 

-”Many nasty things are.” I let out.

 

 

He snorts, amazing man, immune to any kind of doom.

 

 

 

We take more than one hour to find the spot to place the barrel, for it needs to destroy the base of one tower and send it crumbling on the other, toppling it down. Splitting the powder would make the explosion too weak, and God, it's a bloody gamble in the dark.

 

We have no fuse, and we take one more hour to make some, dipping a fine thread into oil, then into the powder we have, writing calculations about time and distance upon the tower walls with burnt sticks. _Pathetic fools,_ the wind says, _I will dry your blood._

 

We make the fuse long enough to be lit from the barn right next to the left tower, and give whoever lights it time to get back inside safely. The thread should be kept dry under the barn's roof, in case those angry skies break above us.

 

 

Another hour to run around the Abbey, counting two ways in. The main entrance, and a gaping two-yards breach in the wall behind the barn. The breach is almost covered with ivy and bramble, and we decide to gather more bushes to hide it completely, hoping the Spaniards will miss it, and get all in by the front door. Jussac does quite a masterly job at this, knotting bramble around some sort of fence made of thin beech branches. It takes time and it's bloody ridiculous, but, from one yard away, it looks like the wall is whole, but covered with vegetation.

 

Heavens, our lives depend on blackberry bushes and sticks.

Gambles in the dark.

 

I wanted a glorious battlefield, in a long long time.

_None of us gets to choose._

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wind is almost blinding us, and our hands are numb. We hurry back inside the hall, patting the dust off our coats, spitting on the floor what got caught in our mouths.

 

\- “I would suggest you step out of the way.”

 

 

Armand.

We both start, looking around.

 

 

We find him standing in a dark corner of the hall, a ball of rope in his hands. Next to him stands a small pile of trunks and wood boxes I think I saw in the dining room, with a musket tightly fixed upon them with rope. The rope goes on from the trigger up to a pulley in the ceiling, obviously the one that was holding the heavy candelabrum now laying on the floor.

Circling around the pulley, the thread falls back at Armand's feet.

 

 

He picks it up, walking to the closed door, and softly tests the length of it with his deft fingertips.

Satisfied, he attaches the loose end to the door handle, and quietly walks to the other side of the hall. Right there, another musket lays trussed to a shelf, with the same rope going up to a twin pulley, and I suppose this one was holding the ancient, rusty breast plate and blades respectfully disposed on the floor against the wall. God, those things have seen a century of forgetfulness.

 

Richelieu picks up that bit of rope, and goes back to knot it around the other door panel.

 

 

 

He steps back, looking up at his work, and turns to Jussac with an affable voice :

 

\- “Now, would you be kind enough to get out by the window, and open those doors from outside, and I strongly insist you do it with your back against the wall.”

 

The Guard's eyes open wide, but he nods and complies, too stunned for argument.

 

 

He runs to the dining room and we hear a window being opened, wild wind rushing in. Those windows are at least two yards above the ground, and we hear him land on the ground outside with a muffled grunt. Armand gently pushes me back a few feet, turning to the door without a word.

We hear Jussac step behind it, fumbling a bit.

 

Then the left door panel opens outwards, and the musket to the left fires with a loud bang. The bullet goes straight into the courtyard, at a man's chest level.

 

It would have killed anyone opening that door in any other way.

 

 

_For God's sake, Armand, where did you learn that?_

 

 

-”Try the other panel in the same fashion, please.” He shouts at Jussac.

 

We see the soldier cross the doorstep, white as a sheet and visibly impressed, and open the other door, protected by the wall. The second musket fires just the same, with striking accuracy.

 

 

Richelieu joins his hands below his chest again, lifts his chin up ever so slightly, and as Jussac gets back in and closes the doors with mild fear in his moves, he looks at me at last. There is no pride, no smugness in his eyes, only peaceful dignity.

 

\- “How the hell did you think about that, _Cardinal_?” I hiss.

 

I emphasized the last word, hoping he gets a glimpse of how surreal it all is.

But all he does is huff in outrage, gesturing towards the dining room.

 

-”What, you think I'd just sit there and wait like a damsel in distress for the skilled and trained men of action to do all the work? I may not have your brawn, _Captain_ , but I do have wits.”

 

 

With that, he strides past me, back to, I suppose, the welcoming warmth of the hearth.

I look around, amazed. This is a bloody genius idea, and the fact that he lifted all this furniture and boxes by himself is unbelievable, but what impresses me the most, is that somehow, looking at us or looking inside himself, he saw a point in fighting.

 

He found a bit of hope, and I almost dare to believe the angry skies are wrong, and God hasn't forsaken Chancelade after all.

 

 

 

Brushing clots of wet dirt off the corner of my eyes, I start discussing watch shifts with Jussac. The Spaniards are only a few hours away, we need to take turns in the bell tower, and get everything ready. I list out details of when and where, weighing possibilities, like the rehearsal of a horror show, but at some point, the guard lifts his hands and shakes his head:

 

\- “Alright, alright, everything will be done just as you say, Captain.” He laughs. “But first, while we still got time, there’s something we need to do!”

 

And he runs to the stairs descending to the lower floor.

 

Confused, I wait for him to reappear for a while, but as he doesn’t, I walk to the dining room instead. Jussac has been good enough to earn his moment of madness.

 

Armand is sitting in silence next to the revived fire, his hands shaking in trepidation, his brow frowning in worry, his eyes almost losing their fight against resignation. He’s crippled with headaches, how come I notice only now? I run around too much. I ask him if he’d like me to get his tea from the trunks, but he lets out a sad chuckle, and shakes his head. I let myself fall on the bench next to him, and I don’t even insist. I take off my hat, my cloak, sending heaps of dust flying in the air, most of it falling on the blood red robes.

 

I frown, gently grab them low, and give the silk a little shake.

Just like in Fontfroide.

For the blood of a dove.

I pat it a little, my hand refusing to get away from the soft, delicate fabric. I remember the infirmary of la Rochelle, I remember my garrison cot. I remember the hisses and whispers of the blood red silk, the tales they always told. I remember the way they slid upon the Palace floors, whirling around his sharp, theatrical moves as he spoke to the King. I remember eighteen months of grace, cadenced by the waves of the red snakes.

 

God above, I’ve barely learned the hues of his skin, couldn’t you let me breathe with him a little longer?

 

Am I meant to suffer?

 

_Have I sinned so much?_

 

 

 

I realize I’m gripping the silk in a tight fist now, my breath shortened by heartache. Armand sighs, his thin fingers covering mine, slowly unlocking my hand from his robes, and though he doesn’t seem to be able to smile, his eyes spare a soothing glance for me.

 

 

Jussac chooses this moment to step back in the dining room in a thundering noise, and that’s good, because I had no idea what to say.

 

 

 

We both turn towards him, and gasp again. He’s carrying an insanely large tray, filled with food. Bread, apples, cheese, sausage, beer, and what bloody well looks like Quatre-quarts cake.

 

-“I told you!” He claims, delighted. “Monks _do know_ how to have fun!”

 

 

 

And as a whole battalion is riding towards us, as we’re locked in this miserable place with four muskets and six hands, covered in dust and tired to the bone, we find ourselves sitting at the large table, having the best meal we had in days.

 

Look at us, rumbling skies of Guyenne, see us expecting death like a guest for dinner.

 

Look at us headlong fools.

 

_Look at us soldiers._

 

 

Armand is sitting in front of me, his face lit by the tormented sunlight of mid-day, and by some sort of miracle, is eating properly. He’s still pale, and those red circles won’t let go of his eyes anytime soon, but the amount of bread and cheese he gently asks for is almost normal for a grown man. I choose to see it as one more sign of hope, because if I don’t, well, I may just as well lay down and die.

 

 

Jussac, sitting next to me, is literally having a feast, and as if his endless string of amazing deeds today hadn’t been enough, he _talks_.

 

 

-“My family lives in Marly, the smallest village of Lorraine,” he joyfully tells us, “and have been raising pigs for five generations.”

Richelieu listens intently, as surprised as I am. I’m pretty sure that’s the very first time this man talks about his homeland to anyone.

 

-“It’s not the smell I couldn’t stand about pigs, you know, it’s the noise.” Jussac goes on, unleashed.” God, the _racket_ they make when they eat, and they do eat all day! Unbearable. I was about five, you know, when I came to my father and said: ‘ _I will not keep pigs!_ ’. My old man laughed, of course, and asked me what else I thought I’d do. And I lifted my chin up high to say: ‘ _I will keep the King!’_ ”

 

He lets out a roaring laughter, and God, I must be chuckling too. Armand still doesn’t, but his fond stare upon his Guard is just as good.

 

-“ I worked for the blacksmith for a year to buy me a sword, and to train myself, I provoked in duel every able man in a ten miles circle! When I made a hundred men bleed, I declared myself ready for Paris.”

 

With that, he pours himself a generous tankard of beer, doing the same for me and Armand without a glance or a question.

 

-“I didn’t find any wine” he whispers to Richelieu with an apologetic wave of his hand.

 

A bit stunned, Armand doesn’t protest.

 

The soldier drinks up, the ghost of nostalgia passing briefly upon his face.

 

 

-“The blacksmith’s daughter, Marion, was a sweet girl, and his father said that if I stayed to work and kept on being good, he’d give me her hand. She had dark hair, pink lips, and was quite skilled in the kitchen. But all I thought about was the Royal Guards.”

 

He pauses, his eyes lost in thought for a while, but quickly snaps out of it with a shrug, and raises his glass in the air.

 

-“Well, look at me now, father,” he cheers; “ today is the highest point of my career: I’m sitting at a Cardinal’s table!”

 

I smile again, because there’s a bit of me in Jussac’s words, and of course there is, all soldiers speak the same. Armand, though, visibly moved but still doubtful, narrows his eyes at the Guard.

 

-“Why are you telling us all that? “he softly asks.

 

 

 

The man freezes, eyes down, coughing. He picks up a slice of sausage, fiddling with it for a while. For the first time since we arrived here, his brow slowly knits in fear and bitterness, his smile fading into a thin sad line. He suddenly looks right at the Cardinal and stammers:

 

 

-“Because I’d want you to remember me.”

 

 

 

 

Silence falls.

 

 

 

Richelieu’s bright eyes open wide in slow realization, and he joins his hands, his voice creaking as he whispers:

 

-“Jussac, if God grants me life, there won’t be a single day where I don’t remember you.”

 

 

The soldiers’ open, honest face brightens up like a sunny day, and he throws the sausage hungrily in his mouth. Swallowing a nasty lump in my throat, I clap his back, and try to chase the fog of doubt from my voice as I hearten:

 

-“Nobody will have to remember because nobody will die, soldier. Now finish your meal and get some rest. First shift is for me.”

 

I’m not a fool, I know our guts are still twisted by fear, but right now, in our own way, we all find a way to lock it tight inside, and that’s the best answer we could give to the gathering clouds.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

I thought the wind was nasty enough on the ground, but up here in the bell tower, it’s a bloody nightmare. It’s screaming in my ears, and though there might be a little less dirt, it’s freezing me to the guts. Above my head, the sturdy woodwork of the roof is creaking and moaning under a constant attack. The wind rushes into the large opening I stand in, whistling in hellish notes upon the huge steel bell behind me, making everything vibrate, from the tiles to the very stones.

 

From where I am, I get a pretty clear view of the road ahead, but also upon the threatening skies.

No more than forty miles North, a mighty storm is approaching. Something I’ve only seen in the wild mountains of Savoy, black skies thundering, buzzing air, pouring rain. The wind is furious, whipping the tower walls restlessly, playing a dark, obsessing tune on the Church bell.

Your boys are dead, he sings. I dried their blood on the road.

You’re on your own, he says.

 

_They’re going to cut him open like a sheep._

 

I clench my jaw, no, let them come.

My blood is meant for those dusty winds.

 

 

I stand my ground, facing the wind, watching the road, waiting for death. The whistling will drive me crazy soon enough, and though I repeat every detail of our plan again and again in my head, blurred images of Armand’s dead body send jolts of panic up my spine. I know what to do with fear, all soldiers do. They do, or they die.

 

But God, I’m terrified.

 

 

Nobody cares, the whirlwind says.  
_They’ll rip him apart._

 

_Like the doves of Fontfroide._

 

 

 

 

By the time Jussac come up to relieve me, three hours sharp after the beginning of my shift, I’m shivering, my mind filled with endless loops of soldiers songs, my ears drained by the restless whistling of the bell. I must look dreadful, because the guard has a wince of sympathy when he sees me, his first gesture being for the northern skies.

 

 

-“It’s coming fast.” He shouts, trying to be louder than the wind.

 

I nod, frowning at the storm painting black and blue the sweet summer afternoon we had.

It should be there in one hour or two.

With a bit of luck, it’ll be past us when the Spaniards arrive.

 

Without…

 

 

_I’ll dry your blood into the dust._

 

 

 

 

 

Jussac comes to stand in my place, pushing me away with a smile, but before I walk down the narrow stairs, he grabs my arm and warns me in a quieter voice the wind almost steals:

 

 

-“I left the Cardinal in the monks dormitories to rest. The fever came back one hour ago. I told him he had already worked himself up too much, but he insisted upon adding the two other muskets to his rope device in the hall. He did it alright, but he fell down on the floor right after, burning like fire.”

 

 

I let out a long series of curses, rushing down the stairs.

For God’s sake, is facing guns not enough?

Sickness is a ghost.

 

Above my head, the furious winds laugh at me one last time.

 

 

 

I find Armand laying on a narrow monk’s bed, near a smaller hearth, pale and shivering, frowning and mumbling in his sleep. I hear his wheezing breath before I can even touch him. The wicked shade of blue is back on his lips, and I spit my helpless anger at God above as I inspect his face and hands for blood, can't you help us Lord, can't you care? 

 

The blood didn’t come.

  
_I’m still mad at God._

 

-“Armand?”

 

 

He jumps slightly, lets out the small gasp of a man woken up from a nightmare, and painfully opens his eyes to look for me. When he finds my face, he breathes my name and reaches out.

 

 

-“I dreamed you were dead.” He cries, and I can’t blame him.

 

I hold him tight, God, how thin he is, how weak. He was almost smiling three hours ago, sickness is a snake. Sickness is the worst of all wars to fight.

 

 

I ask him if he’s taken his medicine, he nods. I urge him back in the bed, then, laying two thick wool coverlets upon him. I put four logs of dry wood into the fire, and come back to sit on the floor next to him, crossing my arms on the bed, laying my chin upon them, watching him in silence.

 

He doesn’t go back to sleep, he looks back at me, his eyes blurred by fever, shaken by slow shudders. Pure agony is written on his face every time he draws a breath, but he doesn’t complain. He’s brave, he has always been. After a while, he gently lifts his hands to graze my cheek, stroking dirt away in patient moves. I kiss his fingertips as they pass near my mouth, and finally, he smiles, and whispers with tenderness:

 

\- “I still see you in your office at the garrison, wine and gingerbread in your hands, jumping like a deer at the mere sound of my voice, no more than twenty days after facing fifty armed men in La Rochelle.”

 

 

I grunt, rolling my eyes, but the memory brings warmth to my heart all the same.

 

Armand’s eyes are still hazed and distant, but his voice is steady as he goes on, his thumb stroking my lips:

 

\- “How handsome you were, in shirtsleeves, furious and troubled.”

 

 

The heat threatens to spread on my cheeks, and I look down for a while.

 

\- “How mighty you were” he breathes; “insane with want, intense and focused on pleasuring me, just as you are with everything.”

 

 

\- “ _Armand_ …”

 

 

I don’t know if that was encouraging or begging to stop, but it doesn’t matter, he barely noticed. I take his fingers into mine, spend some time kissing them, lulled by the memory of all our first times. He pauses for a while, lost in his own thoughts, then slowly states, bittersweet serenity in his voice.

 

\- “If God has decided my work on Earth ends here today, my love, I can’t even resent him, because after all, he brought you to me, and every hour has been worth a thousand lifetimes.”

 

 

I open my mouth to tell him no one will touch him, to speak about how ready, how eager I am, but he shakes his head, and words crumble in my head. His eyes of stained glass hold onto mine, and he says once more this strange sentence I heard before:

 

-“Don’t feel guilty if they kill me after all, Jean, because, you know, you already saved me.”

 

 

I want to ask him to explain himself again, but I don’t think I need to. I just lean further and kiss his burning lips, soothing him with sweet nothings until he sleeps.

 

 

 

I wait some more before I get up, watching him in his uneasy slumber, wondering if my unholy love can indeed save this man’s soul. In his insane resolve, he has done so much evil, he has killed so many. Do his reasons have any meaning for God? Does the Lord above value the glories of France? Does he value my bravery, my loyalty, my honesty, is my soul worth enough to redeem Armand de Richelieu?

 

Does He even care?

 

_Did He ever notice Chancelade?_

 

 

 

 

 

I stand with a wince and walk out for a perimeter check, and as I close the dormitory door, I think I hear the first thunder rumbling up North.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

**Part Four : Silk and Blood.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I painfully step back through the dining room window, as Armand’s muskets are armed and tied to the main building’s doors. I slump on a bench, rubbing this bloody dirt off my eyes again, and look outside, sighing.

 

It’s strange, this particular sunlight. It’s nothing different from any other sunny midday, except that the air is denser, the smells stronger. The fierce energy brewing in the skies makes the warm light almost violent.

 

I watch the courtyard being shaken and tousled by the wind, and silently witness the last sunlight before the storm. I hear the trees moan a last complaint, I hear the sound of dirt slapped against the windows, broken branches and lost tiles flying in circles upon the dusty ground.

 

 

The wind, enraged, screams his victory march, and proudly announces nature’s fury.

 

In a moment, the black clouds are above us, and the storm is everything he threatened to be.

 

Rains starts to fall in thick drops, each one tapping on the building with a soft drumming noise. The air is so tense it’s hard to breathe, and every tree beyond the walls are bent low. I get up and watch the fuse of the powder barrel. It runs under the barn, and should be dry enough to be lit from there, if the rains fall straight.

 

My hands gripping my weapons, I close my eyes and breathe.

 

 

I have seen so many battlefields, in endless wars, in vain duels. I am a book of scars, I am a hundred fights. What is different with this one?

 

 

_Everything._

 

  
Armand wasn't so wrong, after all.

I know, I know the world won't change its rules. I know ho war doesn't care. But God, I almost regrets those reckless times of my youth, when I could steal a horse and charge a dozen men, when I could draw my sword and laugh at my enemy’s face. Those carefree times where all I had to win was glory for my father’s name and the pride of my King.

 

 

Those blissful times, before Armand, where I didn’t care if I lived or died, because I hadn’t so much, _so much to lose._

 

 

 _They’ll break every bone in his body_ , the storm rumbles.

 

 _He’ll die, he’ll die if you fail_ , the rain snickers.

 

 _They’ll defile him and slit his throat_ , the wind hisses.

 

**No.**

 

 

 

I stand my ground, my eyes on the battle ahead, just like he did, so long ago, on the seawall of La Rochelle.

 

I am Jean, the second son.

 

 

I am a Musketeer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**-“They’re coming!”**

 

 

 

 

Jussac is running down the stairs, paled but resolute, almost thrilled.

The skies are howling, twisted and turned by thunder, dark clouds spiraling above, angry flashes of light blinding us every minute. The storm won't be past us, we'll fight right into it.  
  
  
God doesn't care.

 

 

 

\- “How long?” I ask.

 

\- “Half an hour at most.” Jussac pants.

 

I nod.

 

\- “I’ll go wake up the Cardinal.” I add. “He’ll be safer with us.”  
  
I rush past him, pointing at the barn through the window and hissing:

 

\- “Watch this fuse. If that trick doesn’t work, we’re dead.”

 

I stride upstairs, and almost run into Armand on the landing, outlined by the tortured light, no doubt woken by the storm.

 

I don’t speak.

 

He just has to look at me once, and he _knows_.

  
He inhales, deeply, and cups my face with his hands on pure instinct.

 

 

His skin is still burning, but his eyes are clearer, and his breath almost steady. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t cry. He kisses me deep, raw and demanding, pressing himself against me, stealing my air, drowning my mind. He kisses me hard, his fingers stroking my cheeks, until I’m groaning in his mouth, emptied of everything I fear, filled with everything he feels.

 

He pulls away one inch, then, and I hear it, clear as daylight I hear it.

 

 

\- “I love you, Jean.” His soft lips whisper upon my own.

 

 

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding back.

I let out a breath I had been holding back for forty years.

 

 

I gently stroke the blood red silk stretched on his waist, making it hiss its old mysteries.

I lift one side of his wide robes, bring it up to my lips, kiss it with devotion, and calmly answer:

 

\- “I trust you too.”

 

 

He smiles, and all is said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I lead him back downstairs in the hall, where we meet Jussac. He gauges Richelieu with an anguished stare, only passably reassured when Armand is one yard away from him, and he can see his walk is firm enough. He steps back with a bow, then, and draw his gun with the trepidation a child could almost have. Smiling the smile of war drums, I draw my own, and nod towards the dining room.

 

 

Before we run there, we have to stop and stare, because Armand quietly walks to the wall where he laid down the ancient breast plate and blades. The piece of armor still wears the arms of the Lords of Guyenne, and must have witnessed a thousand wars. It’s a bit sad, this rusty metal abandoned there, decorating a wall no one looks at, silent reminder of long gone days.

 

 

Richelieu leans over and picks up one of the blades. He inspects in for a while, testing its balance, its weight. As we watch, gaping, he twists his wrist twice, making the blade cut through the air in two perfect, hissing circles. He stands there poised and graceful, blood red waves pooling around his feet, the ancient sword pointed towards the ground, held by his deft pale hand.

 

He meets our eyes with a serene face and simply states:

 

-“I sang songs and drank wine at La Cloche too.”

 

Jussac and I share an awestruck look.

 

Neither of us dares to object.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Upon the large dining table, we quickly split the bullets we have left between Jussac and me. The Guard volunteers to light the fuse in the barn with a torch from the hearth. I just need to post myself on higher ground and signal him. We choose the window of the dorms upstairs. I'll only see the Spaniards when they'll be a hundred yards away, but that should be enough.

 

 

Armand stays in the dining room until I get down from the dorms, and Jussac comes back from the barn. After the explosion, we'll see how many Spaniards are left to force their way in, and how much more are killed by Armand's trap doors.

 

Because we'll have to face all that is left in fair, plain fight.

 

 

I clap Jussac's back again, throw an eager glance at Armand, and rush upstairs.

 

 

If the darkening skies of early evening weren't enough, the rivers of rain make it barely possible to watch the road. But with some luck, rain may damage their powder too. I look up at the furious clouds, pushing away images of Armand's corpse every time I breathe.

 

So much to loose.

 

 

I frown, biting my lips in anguish, where are my boys now?

I won't loose all hope until I've seen them dead, but God, if the Louvres wasn't a dreadful place already, it is far, so far from here.

 

 

The wind bangs against the window, making me jump. I focus on the road.

 

I don't have to wait. No more than two verses on an old song.

 

 

They're coming, a thick mass of horses and men climbing up the road, with only one small chariot behind I can't figure out the purpose of. Their silhouettes look tired, riding against the angry winds, the violent rain drenching them. Night will soon be falling and I may never see the faces of those men bound to kill us all. Who are they? How much did they ask for this disgusting job? Do they know I was born fifty miles from their homeland?

 

 _Nobody cares_ , the storm laughs.

 

Nobody cares.

 

 

I bang my foot on the floor as agreed with Jussac, and seconds later, I hear him hit the mud outside with a grunt, and run through the yard. Muttering a short, imperfect prayer, I run back down the stairs.

 

 

Armand is standing by the open window, heedless of the wind and rain upon his face, one hand still holding his old sword, the other pressing fingertips against his mouth, looking out for Jussac with visible anxiety.

 

Thunder roars above, striking the ancient trees, splitting them in two. The courtyard is nothing but a yellow pool of mud, scattered branches and broken tiles all around. Everywhere inside the building, we hear the woodwork creak, windows upstairs about to break.

 

 

 _They will cut him to pieces_ , screams the wind.

 

 _He'll die, he'll die if you fail._  
_He'll die, he'll die_ , hammers the rain.

 

 

 

 

I grab Armand's arm, just to feel his warmth.  
I wonder where I used to find my strength, before him.

 

 

We see Jussac's firelight in the barn giving life to another, and his sturdy silhouette running back towards us. If our calculations are right, we have two minutes. By then, the Spaniards will be at the door, maybe already passing through. The old ruins crumbling down on them will make a mess, especially if they stay on their horses.

 

 

God above, have you ever listened?

You may punish me with Hell later if you want.

But grant me the last glory of protecting him.

 

 

Grant me this one more battlefield.

 

 

Jussac rushes to us, making a jump, and I grab his arm to haul him inside. He lands on the wooden floor, muddy water dripping from his cloak, and almost falls into Richelieu's arms. Armand throws an arm over his shoulders, delighted to see him back, murmuring praise. The brave man from Lorraine lets himself be celebrated, and is about to laugh something joyful, when we hear the first crash coming from the door. Far too deafening to be made by men.  
  
God, their chariot.

 

It must have been a small cannon.

 

They'll break that door in _seconds._

I look over at the fuse, burning bright, almost out of the barn and into the tower.

There's barely enough time.

 

 

 

God above, have you ever heard?

 

 

 

 

 

 _Nobody cares_ , the storm rumbles.

_You're on your own._

 

 

A terrifying thunderclap shakes the Earth, and in a blinding, vicious flash of light, the barn's roof is destroyed.

 

-” **The fuse!** ” Jussac shouts.

 

 

The wooden roof collapses on the floor with a sinister creak, burying the fuse into the mud. The light goes out, dark skies roar in triumph.

A second crash is heard, and a massive fragment of the door falls in the courtyard with a wet sound. Right behind the hole in the gates, we can see the black mouth of a thin cannon, and two men loading it again.

 

One more strike and the gates will break. Thirty men will get in, and we're as good as dead.

 

_God, have I sinned so much?_

 

 

The only way to blow up that powder is to set fire to the fuse inside the tower. But there is no way to make it back here on time. This is suicide.

 

 

 

-”Ithink it's my time to shine.” Jussac says.

 

 

I want to ask him what he means, but he starts to laugh.

 

_He laughs._

 

 

 

The third crash roars at the gates, and another chunk of ancient wood surrenders. Most of the Spaniards are still trying to get inside on their horses and need more space, but those who have dismounted are already barging in.

 

I fire my gun at the first one, shooting him dead.

 

-”Bless me, Cardinal, please.” I hear Jussac whisper.

 

I turn my head just enough to see Armand, distressed, drawing a cross on his Guard's forehead with his shaking fingertips and question him why, but the soldier doesn't reply.

 

-”Remember me.” He just says.

 

  
  
And throws himself outside in the storm, raising his gun and his small torchlight.

 

 

 

 

-”Jussac! **No!** ” Armand cries out.

 

He moves to follow the guard, but I hold him back with my free arm across his chest. He shouts at me, but I shake my head, because I know, now, what the brave man meant.

 

His time to shine.

 

_His time._

 

 

 

The soldier runs through the courtyard towards the watchtower, his light burning bright under furious clouds.

 

A huge Spaniard on foot aims his gun at him, I shoot him down.

Another one draws his sword, Jussac shoots him down.

 

I can reload in five quick moves.

Jussac can't.

 

 

The gates creak one last time, breaking down in shreds. Mercenaries rush in, with and without horses, in a tight horde of savage beasts. I shoot twice, but that's not enough. The gate is vomiting men as would the mouth of a monstrous snake. The Guard is ten yards away from the tower when the first bullet hits him in the legs.

I heard Armand call out his name, his voice crushed by despair.

 

Wounded, Jussac keeps on running, limping horribly on his left side.

I shoot another Spaniard, but there's too many inside, and the Guard is running right at them with a bloody firelight marking his spot.

 

The second bullet hits Jussac in the guts, and he falls on his knees.

 

 

I think I hear him laugh.

 

 

 

Crawling in the mud, holding up his torch, inch by inch, he still moves on. Three yards away from the tower. He tries and stands up. One more bullet, I can't see where, makes him jump in an ugly shudder. He takes four slow steps, falters, swaying on the side, and it almost looks like he's dancing to the sound of pouring rain. One yard away, no more. I shoot, but God doesn't seem to care.

 

 

The winds and the storm sing their death songs.  
_I'll dry his blood._

_He'll die, he'll die._

 

One last bullet hits Jussac in the chest, and he falls face-first on the ground. Armand lets out a strangled sob, gripping my arm with bruising force, burying his face in my shoulder.

 

 

He falls, the bravest soldier of them all, and the Spaniards leave him for dead. But Jussac is still moving. None of them notice him, but I am sure I still see him crawling, slowly, but surely, into the tower, relentless, amazing man.

 

 

 

 

God above, have you ever cared?

 

 

 

One, two seconds.

The tower explodes in a miracle of white fire.

 

 

I could swear I still hear Jussac chuckle.

 

 

 

The whole structure crumbles where the gate used to be, the horses whinny, and the Spaniards howl.

I don't have time to count how many men are inside, but there won't be any more.

The heavy roof of the tower crashes upon the base of the other, cutting through it as an axe cuts into a tree. The second tower wavers and rocks for an endless minute, then finally shatters, its huge debris joining those of the first upon the horde of Spaniards.

 

_It worked._

 

The storm hisses in anger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I squeeze Armand's shaking form for a second.

 

-”He didn't die in vain.” I whisper.

 

 

I can't afford to do more. Mercenaries are running towards the building, and if the roaring fire of the hearth wasn't enough, my gunshots through the window have clearly shown them where we are.

 

It doesn't matter much.

 

They're obviously bound for the doors, as they can't jump in by the windows that easily. I hide Armand behind the wall, and my feet hit something heavy. I look down.

 

Jussac's bullet pouch.  
  
I pick it up, at least twenty pieces left.

 

 

 

_He knew he wouldn't need them._

 

 

 

Swallowing my pain, I run to the hearth, pouring half of the powder I have left in the pouch, and throw it all in the fire.

 

I hurry back to Richelieu, find him leaning against the wall, his cheeks drenched in tears, but his face calm enough.

 

-”Armand, quick!”

 

I grip his sleeve and pull him with me to through the hall to the Abbot's office, where we hide in silence behind a closed door. Jussac's pouch was made of thick leather. It should be enough.

 

Gambles in the dark.

Every second of this battle is a gamble in the dark.

 

 _Pathetic fools_ , the wind says, _I will dry your blood._

 

 

 

The Spaniards hit the doors with dreadful force. I can't figure out how many are left, not to the sounds they make, because what we mostly hear are the shrieking cries of men and horses dying under the debris.

 

God, those wails. The dead scream too loud to let the living be heard.

 

Right next to me, I hear a dry wheeze growing in Armand's breath.

 

 

Hell, _not now._

Sickness is a snake.

 

 

I look over at him, grabbing his face, kissing his brow.  
-”Calm down” I mouth, and he nods, trying to take steadier breaths.

 

 

The building doors will soon surrender too, and Richelieu's device awaits.

 

God above, if you ever listened.

 

 

We hear a loud creak, and a few men shout in enraged victory.

A heartbeat, and the two first muskets fire.

 

Spaniards yell in anguish and pain, other howl in fury and shoot, madly, blindly.

Bullet impacts strike everywhere, including on the door we're leaning on, and I usher Armand behind a wall again, just to be sure.

 

Another lament of ground wood, and the two last muskets shoot.

 

I hear one Spaniard scream about a trap, and something on their left.

They rush into the dining room. The same voice starts to shout that the room is empty, but he doesn't finish his sentence, a hellish racket booms out from afar.

 

 

The bullet pouch has exploded in the hearth.

More howls of pain. Good.

 

 

I need half of those men dead, because from now on, our bags of tricks in empty.

 

The magic show is over.

All that's left is my last bullets and our swords.

 

 

All that's left is Armand and me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I push the massive, ancient desk of the Abbot in front of the door, just to give us some time, and gesture Armand to one of the windows behind us, leading to the gardens on the right side of the building. Most of the fuss seems to be coming from the front, and we might have better chances if we attack what's left of them from the rear.

 

It's almost completely dark by now, and if the storm sounds tamed by the fact that we're alive, rain is still pouring in waterfalls, and is here to stay.

 

 

 

As the first blows from the Spaniards shake the office door, I throw a glance at Armand. His breath is wheezing, labored and painful, and his skin is lost in the shiver of bad omens, but he's still standing proud. He's looking up at the night sky, his features tired but serene, his eyes brighter than any kind of sunlight, and I remember there were times I thought he could really speak with God.

 

His stare slowly descends to me, at some point, and he smiles the way he smiled so long ago, on the morning of the first night I spent with him in the Palace. I woke up tangled in his warmth, blessed by white, gorgeous sunlight, and he kissed my hair a little bit, laughing at me for snoring in my sleep.

 

 

I remember the smell of his tea coming from the hearth.

I remember my uniform scattered on the wooden floor.

 

 

The touch of his fingertips on my chest.

 

 

 

 _They'll bleed him dry into the mud,_ the rain sneers.

_He'll die, he'll die, he'll die if you fail._

 

 

 

 

 

I break the window open with a few kicks of my boot and jump outside. The mud welcomes me with an ugly wet sound, and I raise my hand to help him. He neglects it, shrugging, and leaps also, landing gracefully next to me, twirling his sword in the air, his eyes fixed over my shoulder, upon the roaring mess in front the courtyard.

 

I look at him in awe.  
How magnificent he is, in blood red wings, milk skin and silver hair, and I swear he's every tale I ever dreamed of.

 

 

 

God above, have you ever watched?  
  
Well, watch me now.  
  
  
  
Watch me die for that man.

 

 

 

 

I raise my gun, groan at the rain and run to the front of the building, his steps behind mine.

 

 

Where the gates used to be, an horrible heap of rubble and dead meat stands high upon the dirty ground. Rivers of rain drench that gigantic silhouette of disarticulated bodies, washing the mixed blood of men and animals into the mud. Some of the men have crawled away from the mess, only to die a few yards further, their spilled guts as a grim trace of the last path they took. Some of them have obviously been projected far enough, their crushed bodies laying as rag dolls under torrents of rain.

 

 

 

By the main doors, four more dead, a gaping hole in their chests. Musket bullets do pierce armors after all.

Among the living, and I count six in the courtyard, many are limping, or gripping a dangling piece of their flesh with the hand that isn't holding a weapon.

 

 

I aim my gun, shoot the less wounded man in the head.

He falls like he suddenly felt asleep.

 

 

The mercenaries do look surprised, and by the time the three nearest Spaniards turn towards us and scream, I can shoot another one, and draw my sword for the two others.

All I fear is gunfire. It's dark, but not dark enough, and I'm fighting in the open. I keep moving, pouring random moves in the patterns of sword fight, but I am still an easy target. I need to run at them fast enough to provoke close combat before they can aim, but God, if there are dozens of them, how the hell could I do that?

 

 

The tallest of the two Spaniards, his face covered in scars, his eyes gleaming in raw hatred, roars at me with a dagger held high. I dodge, bending low, punch him in the guts, move aside as he lunges forward and thrust my blade in his back.

 

He howls for one second, and that's all.

The other one doesn't even look at me, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping, because they surely didn't speak to him of the Cardinal de Richelieu as a man who can handle a sword, and yet, I'm sure he can feel his blade as it goes through his chest almost to the hilt.

 

Armand grunts as he pulls hard to retrieve his sword from the man's insides, and the Spaniard, gagging on blood, falls over on my feet. Richelieu looks almost as stunned as the dead man, staring at his blood-soaked hands with a shudder of disgust.

 

 

I could almost smile.

He killed hundreds, he killed thousands, whole cities burned to the ground, but I think it's the first time he didn't do so with a signature or a nod.

 

Curses in Spanish are heard from the main doors. Five more men are running out of the building, none of them drawing a gun.

 

 

The pouring rain.

_Hard to keep your powder dry on horseback isn't it?_

 

 

 

 

 

Armand takes a wheezing breath, gazing at the five enraged bears rushing towards us. He bites his lips in fear, but doesn't take one step back. How brave he's always been.

 

How thin, tough, how tired he is tonight.

 

 

 

-”Stay behind me!” I shout, pushing him closer and stepping forward.

 

 

This might be the best demonstration I'll ever do, and none of my boys is there to see it.

I jump and dance to stay at equal distance from the five of them, blocking blades, spinning around, looking for weak spots, grinning like I have all the time in the world.

 

Thunders roars down south, already fading, but the rain has still a few songs to sing.

 

I kick one man in the knees, he bends forward and he shouldn't have. I slit his throat with a sharp twist of my arm. He falls.

Is it me laughing?

 

Oh God, it is.

 

A sword whistles close to my ear, and a maddening pain shrieks in my arm. I look at my shoulder. The leather is cut deep, leaking blood in small streams of red. I drop my gun, my hand ripped of its strength for a while. The bears cheer.

 

I hear a cry of anger, and see a flash of red in the mud next to me.

 

-”Armand!” I bark. “ **Step back !** ”

 

 

Too late.

Richelieu twists his blade and cuts a man's wrist deep enough to have him drop his sword, but the Spaniard next to him turns around and opens an ugly gash in his side. Pale skin appears under the silk of his robes, and the worst is that I can't even tell how much he's bleeding.

 

He's _covered_ in blood red.

 

 

He makes a low whimpering sound, wavering, his free hand blindly covering his torn flesh.

 

No. Nobody hurts him.

Not now, not here, not _ever._

 

 

I turn to the Spaniards, my blade dancing, oh, don't you cheer too loud, animals, you haven't wounded the right arm. My sword clangs two, five, ten times, then finds an unprotected chest. Dodge, thrust. One more down. I lunge at the smallest of the rest, using my weight to tumble him over, slit his throat so deep I almost cut off his head, roll over in the mud, and stab another one in the guts from below.

 

The last one, the one who wounded Armand, picked up his sword with his other hand, but he's obviously not as deft with that one. He's dead in five moves, but somehow I feel the need to step on his chest and cut through his face until it's nothing but a pulp of ripped flesh.

 

I slash his dead body twice more before I can stop, out of breath.

 

 

Is it me laughing?

 

God, it is.

 

 

 

 

I look around. Only dead bodies in the mud. No more yellow, no more grey. Everything is red and black. Thunder rumbles South, no more than the shadow of what it used to be. As I take a look at the skies above, wincing in the pouring rain, I see scattered stars betweens tight packs of angry clouds. The storm recedes, defeated.

 

 

We're still alive.

An insane chuckle escaping my sore throat, I shiver from head to toe, feeling cold rain slide down my spine.

 

 

 

I rush to Armand's side, inspect his wound. It's bad. The organs look unharmed, but if he lets go of the gash for too long, his guts may start to spill. Hell, do you _have_ to be so thin?

He frowns and shrugs, opening his mouth to reassure me no doubt. But something makes him start and look behind us, letting out a short cry of anguish.

 

I follow his gaze.

 

Oh no.

 

 _Lord,_ _**no.** _

 

 

 

 

Ten more men, fresh and intact, are rushing at us from the gardens with yells of rage, where the hell do they come from?

 

God.

_The breach in the wall._

 

 

The storm must have destroyed our trompe-l'oeil fence, and some men, blocked by the heap of dead bodies, must have tried to get around the wall.

 

 

Ten men, their swords help up high, their teeth showing in the dark.

 

 

 _They'll rip his heart out_ , the rain laughs.

_He'll die, he'll die..._

 

 

 

 

I grab Armand's hand, a bit too hard maybe, I am sorry my love.

I am so, so sorry.

 

 

 

I gently pull him behind me, so he can't see the terror, the despair on my face.  
_  
So he can't see I don't believe in God anymore._

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of them has a gun.

 

 

 

 

I could dodge, but it would mean Armand wouldn't be shielded.

So I just stand, of course, I am a Musketeer.

 

I am the second son.

 

 

I am this man's _lover._

 

 

 

 

 

Gunshot. I cry out.

The bullet is in my left thigh, half of the muscle ripped open.

 

Armand calls my name, distress in his voice.

Have I sinned so much?

_He'll die, he'll die..._

 

 

 

 

Hell, it hurts.

Is it me laughing?

_Is that you, Jussac?_

 

 

 

 

They surround us, and if this bullet may have been their last one, they all have swords. An unbearable silence spreads for a few seconds, and Armand squeezes my hand once, then lets go of me.

 

I scream at him, _don't leave me, you idiot._

 

He still does.

Is he smiling?

 

 

He's not as skilled as he could be, if he had finished his years at the Academy, but I admire the soldier he would have been. He breaks the Spaniard's circle, and moves to the four-stepped stairs of the church, distracting half of those men away from me, and that's the point of it all isn't it.

 

 

I may not believe in God anymore, but Armand still believes in _me._

 

 

 

My Armand.

My dear, my beloved Armand.

 

 

 

 

I turn to face the five men grinning at me, swords pointed at my chest.

I look above, wincing in the rain.

 

 

Who would grant me this battlefield, skies of Guyenne, if God himself denied it to me?

Would you stop laughing at my hopes, storms of Chancelade, and give me my last glory?

 

Would you do that, torrents of rain?

 

Or if you don’t, well.

 

_Wash out my blood with yellow mud._

 

 

 

 

My roar may have shaken the blood-red mud.

But I can't tell, everything’s blurred by my own pain.

 

Swords dance and men die. Blood is splattered on my doublet, washed down by the rain. Is it me screaming? I aim under the arms, look for the heart, thrust deep, spin around. Men fall. Pain doubles. A cut on my back, another on my arm. A raging pain in my chest. I cough, and I feel blood flooding my mouth. I spit it all in the mud that doesn't know what yellow is anymore.  
Everything is red.

 

Agony screams, blood pounding in my ears. I choke on more blood, and lay a hand against my heart, looking down. It's soaked in blood, is it all mine?

 

Skies of Guyenne, watch me die.

 

Watch me die for the Red Man.

 

 

 

I hear steel whistle and clang behind me. _Armand?_

 

Oh Armand, forgive me.

 

Men die, men die, but another blade cuts into my skull, and blood covers one of my eyes.

It's all lost in a strange haze, torn and bleeding everywhere, how come I’m still standing? I am dead, Hell I must be dead, I'm covered in red, and I think my heart has stopped. The world is fading; do I count four bodies at my feet?

 

The last man is huge, and I can't move my leg. Armand, what is happening to _Armand?_ So frail, so tired, _he'll die, he'll die_ . An exposed neck. My arm hurts, shaken by quick spasms. I still thrust my blade, almost blindly, almost wildly. The sword goes through his throat, and the man vomits dark clots of blood upon my face. It smells of raw flesh and bile. He's going to fall upon me and I can't move my leg.  
_Armand!_

I fall into the mud, his dead weight upon me, and all I hear is Armand's cries of pain, echoed by the Church walls behind me. **No**. I try to move, but my skin is ripped and torn everywhere, my muscles refusing me, the dead man's face inches from mine, convulsing.

 

I scream in fear and despair, pushing him aside just enough to turn around.

 

  
Armand has killed three, fighting off the fourth and fifth. The soldier he could have been. The fighter he is. I want to move, I want to crawl, but my wounded leg lies limply in the mud, this huge corpse pinning me to the ground, my head is spinning, the world fading.

 

 **No** , I want to protect him.

My blood was meant for that thick mud.

 

 

I groan like a dog, pushing the corpse away with what’s left of my strength, and slide a few feet closer.

 

The pain is unbearable but I cannot care. Armand's blade is fast and unpredictable, hell, he's good enough, but he drops his guard too often, lift up that sword, for God's sake.

 

Why can’t I speak anymore? All I can do is spit more blood. I must be dead.

 

Lift up that sword, Armand.

 

_Lift up that..._

 

 

**No!**

 

The fourth man thrusts a dagger in his shoulder.  
Armand yelps, and his old sword falls, ringing sadly against the wide stone stairs.

 

**Armand!**

Why can’t I scream?

 

Is it me crying?  
  
  
  
  
_God never cared._

 

 

Moaning in agony, Richelieu still finds the strength to pull out the dagger with his other hand and plant it back in the fourth man's forehead, piercing the skull, sending him flying backwards in the mud.

Strange, how resolve is sometimes an inhumane force.

 

 

But this miracle will be his last, I know, _I know_ , because, I hear that cursed sound as he tries to breathe in.

 

Torn paper, broken bones. The sound of all things ending.

 

He would have killed the fifth man, I know he would.

 

But sickness is a ghost, and he can't breathe.

 

He can't breathe.

 

 

 

 

I want to scream his name, all I can do is send red clots of blood into the mud. _Armand!_

 

 

He can’t breathe and he sways, his bloodied hand gripping his chest. He can't breathe and soon enough he falls, almost graceful, collapsing on his side upon the Church's doorstep. Waves of red gently spread around his thin frame, silk and blood alike.

 

Silk and blood alike.

 

 

 

 

 

As he lies down there upon the soaked stone, like a thin lamb of sacrifice, the fifth man lifts his sword, and won't need two strikes to decapitate him.

 

 _Armand!_  
  
  
Cursed skies, let me at least call his name.

Is it me crying; is it my hand reaching out to him?

 

 

The world is spinning into darkness. It won’t be long, it won’t be long.

 

He doesn’t fight anymore. He simply lies there, his silver hair stuck to his forehead with mud and rainwater, the shreds of his red robes drawing wild roses on the cold stairs. He looks straight at me, I know he is, because it always made me feel a bit warmer inside.

 

I can’t speak. I must be dead.

_Oh, Armand, please forgive me._

 

 

I twist and crawl, a few more feet, please, let me touch his hand. I groan in anger, I sob in despair, my eyes begging for forgiveness, but how serene he is, as he looks back at me. His eyes are half-closed, shining bright, and I don’t think he’s even trying to breathe anymore. He just looks at me with eyes of stained glass, and he smiles.

 

He smiles.

 

I remember that morning of pure white light.

The taste of tea from the hearth.

 

 

The soft touch of his fingertips upon my heart.

 

 

_Don’t feel guilty if they kill me after all, Jean, because, you know, you already saved me._

 

 

The world is fading, what did you mean by that?

How could I save you, Armand, with my love or with my death?

 

 

It doesn’t’ matter. I give you both.

_I give you both._

 

 

 

He can’t breathe, and after a while his eyes roll back, his whole body giving up, and his gentle smile freezes.

 

The last Spaniard laughs and I can’t even scream.

 

 

 

 

**Gunshot.**

 

 

 

 

 

The Spaniard falls, a stunned face around a bleeding hole between his eyes.

 

I gasp, looking around, trying to shake the black mist of death off my mind. I hear the hooves of a horse behind me, and roll over in the mud with a pathetic whimper.

And there, in the glorious light of dark blue skies, they're here, they're all here.

 

_My boys are alive._

 

Something slides down my cheeks again, blood or tears, why should I care. The rain takes it all away just the same. I'm cold. I'm tired. I should be dead soon, and if it can be with the sight of them, well, it could be worse. It could be worse.

 

 

Aramis, bright and passionate, dismounts first and runs towards me, calling me Captain, but I shake my head and weakly nod towards Armand, _don't you waste your time on me, I'm done, it's fine by me._

 

 

 

_Please just go to him._

 

 

 

The young man understands and goes straight for Armand. My gaze follows him. The world is a blur, my heart is failing, but I'd still look if it's the last thing I do.

 

 

Aramis kneels close to the thin red form on the Church's stairs, pulling the fifth Spaniard away with a wince of disgust and gathering Richelieu in his arms, o _h, thank you boy._ Armand's eyes are closed, his lips parted, his face white as death could be. Aramis checks his pulse, gauging his injuries.

 

 

Please, please tell me...

_Tell me, son, I haven't got a lot of time._

 

 

 

The young Musketeer manipulates him for another eternity, and a harsh tremor is shaking me, no idea what. I hear someone crying in gasped sobs. Is it me? Can I even cry like that?

 

Someone gently grabs my shoulders, pulling me upwards until I'm sitting up, calling me Captain also, but with a softer, yet anguished voice.  
  
D'Artagnan. I know it's him, but I can't look. I'm out of time, fellow soldiers, and I need to know.

 

 

Before I let go, _I need to know._

 

 

-”He's breathing!” Aramis shouts, his face brightening into a relieved smile.

 

 

 

The skies rumble above. 

The rain hisses, defeated.

The clouds recede, and a thousand stars appear in the summer night sky.

 

 

 

I close my eyes and smile. .

Don’t give Death a sad face, I always say.

 

 

Strange, how Armand often wondered if loving me would save him from Hell.

Well, as Death kneels at my side to shake my hand, I don't really care about Heaven anymore.  
  
_God never listened.  
Only Armand spoke my name. _

   
  
  
And Armand is alive.  


 

I lift my useless arms to let them fall limply on D'Artagnan's shoulders, and the boy, kneeling in the deep pool of mud he found me in, _holds_ me tight, his whole body trembling.

He's mumbling in my ear, desperate tears in his voice, something unclear about how the storm destroyed a bridge fifty miles up North, delayed them by a whole day. He begs for my forgiveness, but all I can do is lie in his arms, my mind wrapped around the memory of Armand's smile, you know, to keep it with me _wherever I'm going._

 

 

D'Artagnan must feel I'm not listening, because he stops talking at some point and he may be crying, I'm sorry my boy.  
  
  
He still keeps holding me as if I was the string his life hung upon, but it's alright.

 

 

 

 

It's alright.  
I'm tired, I'm cold, and I can't hear my own heart anymore.  
  
It's alright.  
Because I may be gone already, and if it is with their affection, well.  
  
It could be worse.

 

 

 

_It could be worse._

 

 

 

 

Angry skies of Guyenne, rains and storms, look at me.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 

I was Jean, the second son.

I was Captain du Peyrer Treville.

 

I was a Musketeer.

 

 

_**I was the Red Man's lover.** _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Five : As early Morning Dies**

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Death will come and rain will fall_

_As sure as early morning comes._

 

 

_Our graves will bathe into sunlight  
_

_As sure as early morning dies._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see your angry faces staring at your screen. I SENSE them. 
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> For those who worry : don't. 
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> You know I swore an oath to History, and in history books, Treville dies in how own bed, old and grey, 30 years after Richelieu. It doesn't mean he can't *think* he's done for, right? 
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> There will be an epilogue to all this in a few weeks, to tie all loose ends.  
> After that, all will be said and done. 
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> No game of what's historical and what's not this time, as this chapter was made of 30% raw emotion and 70% wooshwoosh clang clang boom pewpew. 
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> Only a few explanations about Treville's ramblings.  
> I won't dwell on the fact that of course, my writing is miles away from how this man would think. Too emotionate. Too sensitive. It's the smelly feet of my dapper fic, I know. 
> 
> This chapter focuses a bit on his faith and beliefs. In God, in fate, in the forces of Nature, in himself.  
> The "second son", coming back like a chorus in a Leonard Cohen song, is a part of this. In the 17th century and up to the 20's, the future of children was traced before they were born. The first son is supposed to take over the father's business, the second is given to the King (in the army) and the third to God (in the Church).
> 
> Try and apply that rule to the Richelieu brothers (Henri, Alphone and Armand), and have a good time. 
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> In my story, Treveille thinks himself meant to be a soldier, meant to die for France (or the France he choose to die for, in this case), because he is the second son, and men are born fighters.
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> Right or wrong, his strong belief in fate and God (he calls out to them a lot) is a bit shaken by the INCREDIBLE BAD LUCK they all have during this last fight. 
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> At the end, he's forced to admit God has nothing to do with what is happening. Men have.  
> His faith wavering, Treville realizes Armand never expected much from God or the King, and always bet everything on him. 
> 
> So when they both think they're dying, while Treville feels betrayed by God and fate, Armand is at peace, because the only thing that didn't fail in all this mess is Jean. 
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> This arch was very important to me. 
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> I hope it has moved you just as much as it moved me all those months.  
> I have started to write this fic in a very dark time of my life, unemployed, my right wrist broken, unable to draw or do anything else than type on a keyboard.  
> This misfortune has brought me the joy of knowing you all, and sharing this with you. 
> 
> Believe it or not, it changed me. 
> 
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> Now, I have a new job, a healed wrist, and it's time to end this story and move on :-) 
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> I still wish I'll hear from you.  
> Find me on tumblr : https://freyalor.tumblr.com/
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> Come and ask for fanart and small fics, I'll always oblige! 
> 
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> Thanks to you all and see you in a while for the epilogue!


	7. THE LOUVRES - Paris

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part One: Is Hell made of this?**

 

 

I remember his cries.

The smell of alcohol and sage, the hard wood against my back. I remember I heard his cries, and I didn’t understand. If I was dead and he wasn’t, how could I still hear him?

Is Hell made of memories? Was I forever trapped in the blood red mud of Chancelade?

Was I meant to hear him suffer forevermore upon the stairs of this old church?

 

I tried to find the sound of rain, the song of storms, the snickering winds, but there was none, I didn’t understand.

All I heard were his cries.

 

 

Then I realized those cries were restrained sounds, let out through bravely clenched teeth. There was agony in their muffled notes, but there was also hope. There was strength. There was life.

 

I listened for a long time, but I couldn’t hear the storms anymore. The rain had stopped.

 

Because of this, more than anything, I dared to open my eyes, and Jesus stared right back at me, what are you doing here?  
I took twenty dreadful seconds to realize it was the stern Christ of dark wood hanging from the ceiling of Chancelade’s dining room again.

Is Hell made of memories?

 

 

I was lying on that large table, my back where Jussac ate. My uniform was gone, and I couldn’t move, because my body was crushed by something burning. Something heavy. I was buried under bricks of red-hot iron.

 

-“He’s awake” a voice next to me said, and I thought I knew it, but I couldn’t remember.

 

Shadows passed and hands grazed my skin. Remove those bricks, I wished I could say; they’ll burn right through me, please release me, is Hell made of this?

But the iron didn’t move.

 

-“Captain?” the voice called, and I think it was a friend, but I couldn’t remember.

The frozen face of Jesus, made inhuman by rough carving and time, seemed to bathe in my suffering, is Hell made of this?

 

That voice asked questions, and someone tried to make me drink something, but I heard his cries again, _Armand_ , and all I wanted to do is turn my head and look for him.

The hot iron was pressed hard against my skin, digging holes into my soul, but I fought for all my life, why would I stop once I am dead?

 

I looked around and I found him. I would always find him.

 

I found him, but I didn’t understand.

He lied on his side facing me on the other table, and two shadows were moving around him. They had cut his robes open, sprawled them on the thick wood, and God, so much blood inside, so much blood.

I blinked once, twice, and the shadows cleared. One of them looked like a town physician, his clothes worn, his face miserable and anguished. He unfolded a thick leather case and picked up an ancient pair of surgical pliers and a needle. He cleaned them in sage water and lifted a blood-soaked cloth off Armand’s side.

I gasped at the wide gaping wound, his insides visible, in horrid hues of red and blue, oh Lord, is Hell made of this?

 

I searched for Armand’s eyes, but the other man came to pass between us, kneeling so he could look at him in the face, his hands softly cupping the thin white cheeks, stroking them with their thumbs, and I recognized those hands before anything else. Aramis.

 

This was Aramis, my dear boy.

This wasn’t Hell. _This couldn’t be Hell._

 

 

Hell wouldn’t allow me to see such tenderness, such care in those hands.

 

_Would it?_

 

-“Cardinal, look at me.” Aramis gently whispered.

 

Armand narrowed his tired eyes, making a visible effort to focus, to breathe, to move. But his stare seemed to find Aramis’ face and held on.

-“This is going to hurt a lot”; the boy warned, “but you are too weak to be knocked out safely.”

 

Armand bravely nodded, and tried to look down, but Aramis’ hands gripped his head tight.

-“Don’t look!” my soldier hissed. “Stay with me.”

 

Armand frowned, twisting a bit, but eventually his slender hands painfully slid up to grab Aramis’ sleeves and he moved no more. The younger man signaled the physician, who let out a shaking breath, obviously terrified of failure.

He cleaned the wound twice, and began to stitch it close with great care, but the skin was so far torn he had to pinch it together with the pliers and pull insanely hard on the thick thread. Armand _screamed_. I whimpered.

 

Aramis held his face, maintaining their eyes locked together, whispering small words of encouragement and I felt so grateful I almost smiled.

 

It was then, I think, I knew for sure I wasn’t in Hell.

And if I wasn’t in Hell, it must have meant I wasn’t dead.

 

 

I looked down at myself. There were no bricks, no iron. My wounds were still raw and unstitched, that’s all. I couldn’t move, because there wasn’t an inch of my skin that wasn’t bruised or shredded. My leg was roughly kept in one piece by a bandage of linens, and my arm wrapped in the remnants of a shirt.

 

I wasn’t dead.

The storm was gone, the rain had stopped, the wind was silent, and I wasn’t dead.

 

My men were all here, Aramis kneeling in front of Armand, the three others around me. The physician surely came from the nearest town, and by the door, I think I saw Lagrasse running.

 

I wasn’t dead.

 

I wasn’t dead, but I wasn’t looking good. By the sour faces of Porthos and d’Artagnan above my head, I could guess they were flat-out furious to let the only physician they could find work on the Cardinal before me. But they knew where our duty lied, they knew how I’d want it to be.

Well, they were right. Their anger would have been nothing compared to mine, if they had chosen the other way.

 

Armand cried again, his whole body shaken by spasms of agony, and Aramis winced. The boy looked like he fell short of words, and gently let their forehead touch, reciting prayers instead. Richelieu held on to his voice, his cheeks wet with tears, fighting to remain conscious.

 

 

The three others didn’t even spare a glance for them. They must have blamed Richelieu for all this mess, and to be honest, that was to be expected.

 

Only Aramis never truly could hate the Cardinal. Right then, he even seemed to feel for him something I didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter.

Armand’s wounds were stitched close, and my dear boy, my almost son, provided him the soft whispers I couldn’t give.

 

This wasn’t Hell.

 

_This wasn’t Hell._

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ **Part Two: I remember.** _

 

 

 

 

I remember Minerva.

 

 

Minerva survived.

 

 

Our carriage had been crushed to pieces by the collapsing roof of the barn, and the four horses, still attached to it as they slept, were all dead. Only Minerva, still saddled but not tied, escaped in the gardens and was found there the next morning by Lagrasse.

 

She was grazing the rare grass growing between the spices and the herbs, covered in mud from head to hooves, peaceful as if she never heard about war.

 

 

I remember I heard her soft neighing as I was carried outside the Abbey on a stretcher. I grunted something, and they stopped to let her walk close to me and sniff my hands with eager interest. I patted her soft head, and I said I wanted that horse back in Paris with me.

 

D'Artagnan promised. The brown mare let out a low rumble, and trotted away quietly in the burning sunlight.

 

 

I thought all of this had been a dream.

 

I learned later that it hadn't.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I remember the corpses.

 

 

The villagers and monks were already back in the Abbey as I was loaded like a trunk in another carriage Athos bought in town, and the bravest of them were busy separating human flesh from dead horses, dead horses from debris.

 

The corpses looked atrocious enough in the night. By daylight, it was even worse. Their skin was blue and grey, swelled and shining, gorged with water. Their eyes bloated like baked eggs, their blood nothing more than light pink hues into the drying mud.

 

 

I remember the dead men. I searched each one of their faces, trying to understand exactly what happened, how we killed so many, locked in this miserable place with four muskets and six hands, covered in dust and tired to the bone.

 

I wanted to carve it all into my memory.

 

 

My most glorious battlefield.

 

 

 

My most terrible war.

 

 

 

 

 

As Athos and Porthos laid me down upon a hard bench seat and moved to close the door, I caught a glimpse of something blue, tattered and torn, but neatly disposed in a clearer corner of the messy courtyard, next to the ruins of the towers.

 

 

I knew that blue.

Oh, I knew it so well.

 

 

The blue coat of the Royal Guards.

 

 

 

I remember something painful crushed my breath, and I squeezed my eyes shut for a while, because I don't think I had any tears left. I blocked the door with a weak hand and asked if this small heap of blue fabric was Jussac.

 

Athos nodded, whispering that they couldn't even fill a shoebox with what remained of him.

 

 

I remember I buried my face into my hands, for I could still hear his joyful voice speaking to Armand, just before he ran towards Death with a bright smile and a torchlight.

 

 

 

“Remember me”, he said.

 

_Remember me._

 

 

 

-” Bring me something of him.” I ordered. “ _Anything._ ”

 

 

Athos paled, but complied. After an eternity of time, he ran back to me with a burnt, bent sword. Around it, the ruined shreds of his bright red belt, the one he chose to wear over his regulation white, just to show his loyalty to the Cardinal.

 

 

I gripped it tight with the hand that could still grip anything.

 

 

 

As they closed the door upon me and Jussac's sword, I remember I saw his silhouette walking quietly in the disgusting mud, waving me good day as he passed by.

I remember I heard him laugh at the dull sunlight and the muddy courtyard, asking for bread and wine, singing a bawdy song about pigs and bourgeoisie.

 

I thought all of this had been a dream.

 

I learned later that it had.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I remember Armand.

 

 

I turned around in the low, cheap and uncomfortable carriage that was all they could find, and I saw him, lying in a rough naked bench seat facing me, covered in bandages, white as a sheet, unconscious. He wore nothing more than a nightshirt of his, as none of the clothes his wounds could bear had survived the battle, no doubt.

 

Athos followed my gaze through the open window and told me they couldn't lie too much to the monks, as they knew someone important had been in the Abbey, and made the connection with the attack rather easily.

 

-” We still managed to hide Richelieu into the carriage before they all arrived” he proudly added. “So, none of them has any idea who he is.”

 

-” You mean he's been lying on this wood plank for _hours_?” I hissed.

 

Athos cleared his throat, mildly embarrassed, and Porthos next to him just shrugged.  
If there had been any strength left in those useless limbs of mine, I’d have kicked them both to the ground.

 

I harshly ordered them to bring Richelieu a blanket and his bag of medicine, and find something softer to lay him upon. I saw Porthos rolling his eyes and I growled, but my anger was as pointless as my weak legs.

 

As they ran off, I touched Armand's hand. All I needed to do was stretch out my arm. It was enough to make me howl in pain, but I have fought all my life, and after all, wasn't I still alive?

I stroked his thin fingers, called out his name. He didn't move, God, how cold he was. The physician did a proper job with both of us, it seemed, but I knew there wasn't only battle wounds to be feared.

 

Sickness is a snake.

 

 

 

As my men came back with a huge pile of blankets, lifted him up to dispose some of them under his body, and a pair above, I asked in a broken voice if they had seen any blood on him.

They looked at me as if I was mad, and I realized the absurdity of my question.

 

-”From his mouth. As he coughed.” I breathed.

 

They exchanged doubtful glances, and Athos turned away to shout something.

He called for Aramis. Of course. Only him would have noticed.

 

 

I saw Aramis' bright, lively face appear at the carriage door. His eyes went from me to Armand, and he hissed something about the way they had laid him down, opening the door in a swift move.

 

-”Not on his right side, you idiots,” he growled; “he's just been stitched back in one piece, for God's sake.”

 

As he jumped in to gently move Richelieu on his back, I repeated my question, and he shook his head. He said Armand didn't even cough once. I closed my eyes in relief, and only nodded weakly when they asked if I was ready to leave.

 

 

 

As the carriage rolled back down the narrow road, I saw the villagers piling up the corpses like wood logs on the side of the track, and I never thought thirty men could take so much space.

 

The last thing I saw of Chancelade was a tight pack of crows around the bell tower, gathering in black swirls above the heap of dead flesh, like a botched tribute to last night's dark, angry storm clouds.

 

 

 

God never cared.

 

 

 

 

I took me two more hours of peaceful journey after that to realize we were truly safe.

I was surrounded by my best men, riding in circles around us, and I was on my way home, lying down on Armand's side in a moving carriage, just like before, weeks, months, ages ago, on the quiet roads of Champagne.

 

Two more hours to realize we were going to live.

 

 

When I did, I let out a low, tired sigh, and reached out for Armand on the opposite bench again.

 

 

I stroked his unmoving face, whispering his name, singing this old soldiers’ song, telling him about the Sunday nights at La Cloche again. Speaking of my homeland, of Paris, of God knows what, it didn’t matter at all. Asking him to forgive my boys for their carelessness, I suppose, though we both knew they couldn’t understand.

 

  
I remember he opened his eyes at some point, frowning in pain, but smiling still, his delicate hands grabbing mine.

 

I remember he looked at me with raw adoration, gauging my bandages, asking if I was alright.

 

 

I remember he laughed in delight when I said I was going to be fine.

 

 

 

 

 

I thought it all had been a dream.  
  
I learned later that it hadn't.

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Three: Legend**

 

 

 

 

 

It's been four days of quiet, slow journey now. Neither Armand nor myself can stand more than a few hours of movement without rest or a change of bandages, so it’s all atrociously sluggish. The carriage has been changed into a heavier, more spacious one, though, bought in Limoges with Royal gold. The horses have been replaced twice, except for Minerva, steadily following us from the start, and only tolerating younger, lighter D'Artagnan on her back.

 

It's been four days, and I can finally move on my own, though never without a pair of ridiculous wooden clutches they had made for me in Châteauroux. My left leg is a useless pile of flesh attached to my body. They say it'll take weeks before I can bend my knee. They say I may never walk again.

 

 _Hah._ The Hell if I'm not up and running before winter.

I have fought all my life.

 

Am I not still alive?

 

 

They offer to help me walk ten times a bloody day, and they don't look like they believe me at all when I shrug and say I'll be fine. _Well, you'll see._

 

I'll be running, or I'll be dead, because being useless is more than I could bear.

I am a soldier.

 

I am the second son.

 

 

 

I've been wondering how long they would wait before they ask me to tell them how it happened. The tale of Chancelade. Four days and fourteen hours is the answer. I thought it would be much less, but truth be told, it didn't look like a nice story to tell.

 

We're all sitting around a wood fire on a quiet evening in the Brenne forest, the stew is delicious and the wine sweet. They saw me try to find a way to stretch that leg of mine without it twitching and hurting like hell, so they ask about my wounds for a while, coughing and sharing glances. But at some point, finally, D'Artagnan speaks up about Chancelade, and they all fall quiet, their eyes upon me like they're expecting all the wisdom of the world.

 

 

Here we go.

 

 

I sigh, and turn around towards the carriage.

 

Armand's wounds have been healing well enough those last four days. But to my utter despair, he didn't get up once. Fever kept on straining him, day in, day out, and that cursed cough was never far away.

 

Blood never came, and there have been hours when he could actually sit up and read or write a bit, but he spent most of the journey lying down, eating barely enough to stay alive, talking only when he had to.

 

I've spent four days holding his hand, waiting for one more blessed hour where the fever faded away, and I could get a glimpse of my Armand behind the sick body that took his place.

 

 

 

I don't think my men have noticed a thing, though, as I only touched Armand when no one looked.

I am gladly back to being careful, because it means we have a future.

 

It means we're heading back to where we were.

 

 

 

 

Following my gaze, Aramis jumps on his feet and runs to the carriage to check on the Cardinal. The others don't even bat an eye, for two good reasons.

 

One, though they know their duty is to bring Richelieu back to Paris alive, I don't think they care if he's in pain or not. They flat-out hate him for bringing me along in this absurd journey, blaming him for every cut and bruise on my old skin. I haven't found the strength to talk them out of that yet.

 

Two, if any of them even tries to get close to Richelieu, he flinches away and closes himself into blank, stubborn silence. Only Aramis is allowed to check on his wounds and talk to him. I still don't understand everything about what is happening between Armand and this boy, but to be honest, I am grateful, so I won't argue.

 

 

-” He’s asleep” Aramis says as he closes the carriage door and walks back to the fire. “No fever.”

 

He sits back and devours me with his eyes, and I guess this was just his way to make sure I'm free to tell my story.

 

 

 

That’s what I do, after a large gulp of wine, and I do it alright, because I don't want to do it twice.

 

 

 

_I don't want to do it ever again._

 

 

 

 

 

 

We're dreadfully late into the night when I fall silent, frowning and exhausted. I've been staring blankly into the fire from the moment I spoke about Jussac, and as I finally look up, they're all watching me without a word, raw admiration written upon their faces.

 

Lagrasse, his eyes down into his plate, whispers a short prayer, surely for his comrade, and empties his tankard as a tribute. D'Artagnan even spares few glances for the carriage, obviously impressed by my tale of Armand's prowess with muskets and sword. The two older men keep their eyes on me, not giving me a clue about how they feel, other than that deep, respectful awe I cannot stand.

 

I shrug, averting my eyes.

 

 

-” You would have done the same.” I mumble.

 

 

Porthos shakes his head, speaking about that battle being the stuff of legends.

 

I am Jean, the second son.

I don't want to be a _legend._

 

 

Athos bites his lips, apologises for their late arrival again, and begins to explain why the collapsed bridge delayed them, but I think I've heard that before, and I raise my hand to cut him short, asking the only question that really matters to me:

 

-” Did the King hesitate?”

 

Their eyes widen, and their mouth fall open, without a sound.

 

-” When you handed him the evidence of Cinq-Mars plotting to kill the Cardinal.” I add, impatience growling in my guts. “Did he hesitate before he sent you to rescue us?”

 

 

 

-” No.” Aramis immediately lets out. “The evidence was strong enough. We found a thick folder in Cinq-mars apartments, filed with the letters you described in your message. It took us one hour to find everything, no more.”

 

 

The others nod in approval, Porthos barely hiding a smile.

 _Hah_. I knew they were up to the task. I always did.

 

-” It was long past midnight, but we still ran straight to the King.” Athos adds. “He accepted to receive us in his chambers, even if he was already in bed. He read the whole lot, really. Every single page. He paled, I think, but he didn't stammer. He sounded rather furious.”

 

 

 

I let out a sharp sigh, rubbing my eyes with my hand, thank God.  
I'll be able to reassure Armand as soon as he wakes up.

 

Won’t I?

 

_Why are they all looking at me like that?_

_This isn’t all about it, right?_

 

-” He sent us straight to Chancelade, and even offered a battalion to come with us” Aramis gently speaks; “but we refused, as it would only slow us down.”

 

-“They couldn’t stop _me_ from coming along, though!” Lagrasse cut in with a smile, and I nod my thanks, keeping my worried frown.

 

 

\- “The King ordered three regiments to walk on Languedoc and Dauphiné,” Aramis goes on timidly; “they must be on their way right now, but...”

 

-” But?” I ask, looking at them over my own fingers.

 

_This isn’t all about it._

 

Aramis winces, and looks down for a while before he breathes:

 

-” He didn't arrest Cinq-Mars.”

 

 

 

-” _**What?**_ ” I growl. “That filthy traitor is still in the Louvres?”

 

-” The King ordered everyone you mentioned in your message to be arrested straight away. Except him. He made us swear we would leave for Chancelade without a move against Cinq-Mars.”

 

-” And we did.” Porthos mutters on an apologetic tone.

 

 

Holy _Christ._

So the King _does_ hesitate.

He doesn't want to let Richelieu die, alright, but he can't bear to hang is lover all the same.

 

 

That means I'll be forced to walk back into the palace after all this bloody nightmare, and look into that rat's eyes as he stands proud behind the King.

That means _Armand_ will have to do the same.

 

**No.**

 

No way, God hear me, no way, I'll gut this cockroach right upon the Louvres' floor if it's the last thing I do before the Bastille.

 

 

 

-” Surely the King needs time to do things properly.” Aramis tries, but I huff through clenched teeth, and no one dares to speak further.

 

 

 

As I limp back to the carriage after a while , I hear Armand's voice greeting me with soft words. He's awake, but dazed by fever. Vicious shivers are still shaking his skin, and his eyes are glassy and vague. I won’t speak the bad news, not now. I’m tired, anyway. I make sure the curtains are drawn and I just lean down to kiss his dry, chapped lips, enjoying the smell of herbs in his silver hair, leaving the rest for tomorrow.

 

 

After all, haven’t we both fought all our lives?

 

The fools we were, to think we'll see one day where the fighting ends.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part Four: Victory march.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wake up and recognize the peaceful skies of Champagne. Oh, welcome back old friends.

I count wordlessly. Six.

 

Six days have passed. We'll be in Paris soon.

 

 

 

I look for Armand out of pure instinct, and find him sitting up, writing, focused and quiet, wearing those civil shirt and pants Porthos half-heartedly bought for him three days ago in Orléans. They're absurdly too large for him, but they mean his wounds have healed enough to bear clothes, and they have the merit to make me smile every time. He looks fine. Well, as fine as he can be, with fever sweat barely dried from his hair, and nasty shivers clinging to his shoulders.

 

-” What are you writing?” I ask, stretching everything but this bloody leg.

 

His face brightens as he looks up at me, his eyes alive with joy, and this is worth a thousand touches.

 

He gestures towards a wooden box on the floor between us, with bread and grapes in it. God, I'm famished. While I grab a handful of both, his lips tense a bit and he joins his hands above his writing.

 

 

-” I... am making a draft” he stammers; “for your letter of recommendation.”

 

I don't understand, but my mouth is full, so I just frown. He knows me.

He bites his thumb, and that's not good. I know him.

 

 

-” I will have you promoted Colonel.” He explains, uneasy. “It will guarantee you a 3000 livres income, a residence in the Louvres, and the liberty to occupy your retirement time however you wish...”

 

I choke on my mouthful of bread and gasp:

 

-” My _retirement_?”

 

Armand raises both his hands in the air, soothing, his brow knitted by worry.

 

-” Nothing definite, Jean, I assure you!” He bloody sounds like he's begging. “Just in case that leg of yours doesn't heal according to your plans, you see?”

 

 

God, it hurts like another bullet in the thigh.

I look down, somewhere between my naked feet and a pile of books on the carriage floor.

 

 

-”So you also think I'll be bloody useless after that, right?”

 

 

 

I hear him whimper a bit, squirming on his seat, his boots scratching the floor, but I don't look up.

I hear him start a few words, finishing none, and cursing under his breath, but I don’t look up.

 

I see his hand come hovering above my wounded leg, and graze it softly, no more that the touch of a feather, and with that, I do look up.

 

 

His face is tense with fear and denial, his breath and pulse out of control, and the pure anguish in his tired eyes slap me in the face.

 

 

God, I never noticed, until now.

But it’s true after all.

 

The hours where I could talk to him, without fever, without pain, without the dizzy slumber of exhaustion numbing him to silence were scarce. And when we could talk, this was never for easy things.

 

 

Two days ago, I had to tell him the King hadn't been able to dismiss Cinq-Mars.

We were standing outside the carriage in a vast, mossy clearing, watching my men quietly break a mid-day camp. This was the first time since Chancelade he stood up by himself, and I took it as a sign he was strong enough to bear the ugly news. By the way he clutched a cup of herbs with white, shaking fingers, I expected nothing but anguish and despair as reaction.

But all I saw was his jaw clenching with a furious strength, his eyes narrowing with wrath, and he very quietly said:

 

\- “As long as I can speak to the King, just once, nothing I made can't be unmade.”

 

I realized with horror that he thought he might not be able to, and I wonder what he feared the most, between the King’s indifference and his own sickness.

 

Because as far as I’m concerned, I’m having nightmares about both.

 

 

 

 

Five days ago, as I slept some of my pain away, he woke me up in the middle of the night, gripping my arm and calling out my name, his face drenched in tears. He was kneeling on the carriage floor, his worn nightshirt sticky with sweat and blood, the insane glint of nightmares still gnawing at his eyes.

 

-“Jussac.” He cried. “Did they find Jussac?”

 

 

I winced, because this wasn’t a moment I looked forward to, but it had to happen sometime.

 

I stroked his hair, whispering gentle words, but he shook my comfort away, asking his question again. There was nothing I could think of to make things easier to him, so I groaned in pain as I leaned down, and retrieved Jussac’s sword and belt from under my bench.

 

I handed it to him and his face transformed in seconds, from sorrow to a cloud of relief and reverence. He gently took the bent weapon, his fingertips stroking the red fabric around it. He asked me if this was everything that was left and I nodded.

 

He closed his eyes, laid the sword upon his lap, and let out a small cry.

 

I let myself fall on the floor next to him without a shred of grace, and gathered him tight against my chest. He may have cried, but not for long. I think, by the way he remained very quiet, his fingers grazing the burned blade, that he did just as Jussac told him to.

 

 

He remembered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Since we left Chancelade, he may never have been as clear from the slow delirium of fever as he is right now, and yet, that _misery_ in his eyes. I realize the cries, the nightmares the pain he’s been through since the battlefield of yellow mud may not have come from the sickness alone.

 

 

It’s true after all.

 

He killed a man with his own hands for the first time back there, and then killed ten more men in the same hour, on his own, with a flesh wound and a rusty sword.

 

He saw his most trusted servant die for his name, laughing in the rain, slaughtered like a pig, blown to shreds under the raging skies.

 

As he fell on the stone ground of the church’s doorstep, the air ripped from his own chest, he must have thought his last sight was meant to be his lover’s dead body bleeding into the mud.

 

God, he must have thought he was watching me _die_.

 

 

As strong, as ruthless as he may be, this is enough to break a man.

I suddenly see how terrified, how _damaged_ he must be.

 

 

What would I do, if I was the most powerful man of France?

What would I do if I saw the man I love almost die like a dog in the filthy courtyard of a nameless abbey, because of what I do, because of what I am?

 

Wouldn’t I write a letter to give him honors, prestige and fortune, a nice title? Wouldn’t I give him a beautiful place to live in, and lock him up there forevermore, where he’ll be safe from harm, just because I can?

 

_Wouldn’t I?_

 

 

 

I softly lay my hand upon his on my useless leg, and smile to the fear in his wide eyes.

 

-“Let me be Captain, Armand.” I whisper. “You don’t have to write that letter. No money, no title would keep me from laying down my life for you ten times more if needs must, and you know it. So let me go back to my garrison, my old cot, my exercise yard. You wouldn’t have loved me, anyways, had I been any different.”

 

 

He shakes his head in desperate, stubborn denial, his voice torn to shreds by helpless tears:

 

-“No, I wouldn’t bear to lose you again, I wouldn’t…”

 

-“Yes you would.” I quietly state. “You’d bear that, and so much more. You’d bear everything until your work for France is done, don’t lie to me Armand.”

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, tortured, and to make up for my cold words, I kiss the frail palm of his hand. How I love the soft touch of his skin, how I love the slight curve of his neck. I wonder how much time it’ll take before I can make his abused body feel pleasure again. He sighs and bites his knuckles, and I watch him with the hunger of a man who came back from the dead.

 

He meets my eyes and blushes. He knows me.

I smile and release his hand. I know him.

 

After a last, bitter hiss of anxiety, he folds the letter in two and throws it back in his trunks. The Red Man is allowing the old me back among the living.

 

Captain Treville lives.

 

 

 

A flapping sound draws our attention to the window. The carriage scared a pack of white birds that was feeding on the road, and they scatter around us in a feathery cloud before they fly away in the nearest trees.

 

A flight of doves.

Could the skies of Champagnes give me a more fitting victory march?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***  
  
  
  
**  
Part Five: The truer kind of love**

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hear it.

Before I open my eyes, before Athos taps the door twice to signal us, I recognize the sound if it.

The way the horses' hooves clap against the cobblestones of Paris.

 

 

Paris.

 

 

My eyelids snap open, and I look for Armand's face again, like every bloody time.

 

 

He's sitting up, calm enough, but pale as a ghost, his eyes circled in purple and red, looking out by the window and biting his thumb. He must have heard the sound of Paris too, and knows the Louvres is near. I see him mouth scattered words dazedly, his brow frowned in effort, as if he was preparing sentences. It's fine, he always does. You don't win a lifetime of arguments without a bit of planning. ButI don't think I've seen him _struggle_ that much to do so.

 

He's beyond exhausted.

 

 

His wounds are not too much of a concern anymore, except that gash on his side that will take months before it even starts to fade, but that cursed sickness has kept on crawling deeper and deeper inside his bones. He's been fighting it with every breath for two rough weeks now, and God, he needs physicians and respite so bad it hurts just to look at him.

 

 

We'll be at the palace in a few minutes, the man who carefully organized his death is still behind the King's footsteps, and Armand is _worn out_.

 

Things don't look good.

 

-”How are you feeling?” I whisper, and he jumps, his tired eyes turning towards me.

 

-”Jean.” He breathes with a faint smile, and reaches out to me with a steady, yet weakened hand.

 

 

I gladly get up from my bench to slump next to him, dragging my useless leg with me like a bag of dead meat. I take his hand, kiss it gently, and since he didn't bother to answer my question, I take a closer look at him.

 

He never looked like he had a pound to spare, but he bloody well did loose a few. Those absurd civil clothes don't help at all. He looks smaller in them. He almost looks _older_. That muffled sound of crackling fire has become a permanent note to each one of his breaths. Inhaling is a war. Each time, every time. God I don't even know if he'll be able to stand up.

 

 

And yet.

This quiet, iron resolve in his eyes stands its ground with insane bravery. He's still calculating, he's still getting ready. His brilliant mind, restless and proud, is still preparing the smooth, subtle fight he always mastered.

 

He's still alive, he's still Richelieu.

 

 

“ _As long as I can speak to the King, just once”._

 

 

 

In spite of blood, scars, exhaustion and illness, I still think he can work his magic again.

 

If he's given time to rest before he meets the King. Just a few hours of sleep in a good bed, and a visit from Citois, the only physician in Court I trust. Citois is a clever man, he won't just tell Armand to eat raw eggs before he bleeds him to death. If he can have that, and maybe a good meal, something to bring color to his face, he'll reappear in front of the King with poised grace, and _speak_.

 

The Red man would be back in Court, strong enough to make the red silk hiss some more.

 

 

If the King doesn't hang Cinq-Mars after that, well, Armand may forget my letter of recommendation and write my Lettre de cachet instead, because I am definitely thrusting my sword into that rat's guts.

 

 

 

 

We pass the gates of the Louvres and I drop one last kiss on his temple. He squeezes my hand, and I every nerve in my body wishes he hadn't squeezed it so _weakly_.  
  
I trust him, I'll always do.

It's just that somewhere in the back of my head, I keep hearing the laughter of Chancelade's wind.

 

 

 

The horses stop under the main stairs, and I let out a bitter chuckle, because this is exactly the same spot where we both stepped in the black sturdy carriage that is no more, ages ago, when none of us had any idea where we were heading to.

How far we've gone. To Hell and back.  

I open the door, and D'Aragnan dismounts to offer his help. I wave it away with a grunt, grabbing one of my two clutches and limping down the footboard in two pathetic jumps.

 

The last weeks of summer look merciful on the garden's trees, their colors still vibrant, their branches still heavy with leaves. The box trees have been freshly trimmed again, and those alleys of white sand seem to be only waiting for the soles of our feet.

There's a timid smell of carnations, behind the vivid scent of soap from somewhere behind the main building. Laundry day at the Louvres. So, this is friday.

 

 _Hah_. I don't even remember the last time I knew what bloody day it was.

 

 

How far we've gone.

 

To Hell and back.

 

 

 

 

 

Porthos and Lagrasse, who seem to get along unexpectedly well, are already coming to me to take orders.

 

-”Call Citois.” I bark. “ Tell him to meet us in the cardinal's rooms at once, and I don't care who he's busy with, he needs to...”

 

I can't go on, because over their shoulders, I see four valets run down the stairs towards us, and I recognize two of the King's personal servants.

 

 

 

 

No.

 

 

For God's sake, **no**.

 

 

-”The King requires to see the Cardinal!” the tallest of them shouts at me, still running.

 

I growl like a mad dog, pushing Lagrasse aside to show the valets exactly how _well-disposed_ I am.

 

-”The Cardinal is wounded.” I hiss through clenched teeth, and though I would be nothing more than a pile of pointless limbs on the ground without that clutch, they still freeze in their steps and look at each other in doubt. “He can't see anyone right now but a physician.”

 

 

The valets hesitate, obviously helpless, but at some point one of the two King’s men stammers, averting his eyes:

 

-“I apologize, Captain Treville, but the King is already waiting in the reception hall, and has been so for hours.”

 

I close my eyes, exhale sharply.

 

The reception hall is just above those stairs. Everyone inside must have seen the carriage by now, and there is no way to bypass the King. If Louis has been waiting for hours, it means he's already bored, if not vexed, and if we make him wait any longer, it’ll play against Armand. A surge of tired rage burns in my chest, and I swear I want to punch the path to Richelieu’s chambers clear.

 

But the battlefield of yellow mud is far away now, soldiers have died and storms have spoken.  
My war is over, and Armand’s begins.

 

We're back in his Palace of lies, his world of smiles and poison.

I must play by his rules.

 

 

I grunt and turn around, pushing the carriage door open again to peek inside.

By the dull and resigned look on Armand’s white face, I guess he heard everything, and came to the very same conclusion as me.

 

 

I extend my hand to help him out, but he shakes his head, gesturing towards his odd loose clothes:

 

-“I have a set of robes in my chambers.” He calmly pleads. “At least send someone to fetch them.”

 

-“I’ll go, your Eminence!” I hear Lagrasse’s voice shout behind my back, and he dashes away before I move to look at him.

 

 

 

I sigh, looking up to the mild skies of Paris. Their shade of blue is softer, lighter than down south, the weather subdued by the roofs of the Palace. The last weeks of summer look sweet upon the yellow stone of the ancient walls, their sculptures still delicate, painted in solemn golden light.

 

 

By the time Lagrasse comes back running with a bundle of white linens wrapped over flashes of red fabric, Aramis has emptied all the remaining contents of our flasks into a small bucket we have, and Armand is cleaning himself with cold water, shivering but thankful.

 

-“Do you need some help getting dressed?” The boy asks Richelieu as Lagrasse hands him his robes.

 

Armand freezes for one second, and though his eyes don’t even falter towards me before he nods, I know he’d want me to do it instead, but we both know his requesting me would be odd. Aramis is the one who’s been taking care of his wounds since Chancelade, after all.

 

 

I’m gladly back to being careful.

It means we have a future.

 

But I still grit my teeth in boiling anger as I close the door upon Aramis gently easing Armand’s shirt off.

 

 

 

 

We all wait outside the carriage, guarding it in a tight circle out of pure instinct, as if this army of four valets was any threat to us. I keep my eyes up on those high windows, my jaw tightening with worry, but I won't bother to find a prayer for Armand.

God hasn't anything to do with our fates anymore, not since that yellow mud.

 

 

In fact, God never cared.

Only Armand spoke my name.

 

 

After a while, Aramis jumps out, and meets my eyes with a face that's far too anxious for my tastes. I frown, mouthing “what?” with tense lips, and he just winces, nodding towards Armand.

 

As Richelieu slowly steps out of the carriage, I understand why.

 

 

He's back in his robes, and they still fit rather fine in spite of the lost weight and the sturdy bandages. The blood red silk is playing its well-rehearsed role, in long, living, whispering rivers around his legs. His stance is steady enough, his back held stiff, his chin up high. His eyes look cold and determined, his face unreadable to most of them, maybe.

 

But not to us.

 

_Not to me._

 

I see he way his hands are gripping each other upon his chest, the way his jaw is closed tight upon whimpers he can't speak, the way breathing in and out seems to take everything he has left.

 

He's only held up by the strength of his own will.  
Sickness is a snake, curled around every inch of his pale skin.

 

Choking his breath into silence.

 

 

“ _As long as I can speak to the King, just once.”_

 

 

 

Will you, Armand?

_Will you?_

 

 

His stare crosses mine, and I see him trying to reassure me without a word, but the pulse in his neck is scattered and weak, and somewhere above my head I could almost hear the rains of Guyenne sneering.

 

 

Sickness is a ghost.

The most dreadful of all wars to fight.

 

 

I move to grab Armand's arm and help him climb up the stairs, but Aramis gently stops my hand, taking Richelieu's arm himself. I almost growl, a flash of rage passing though my guts, but my leg chooses this moment to shudder, and this goddamn clutch is the only thing that keeps me from falling on the ground like a dead man.

 

The boy is right.

 

I'm bloody _useless_.

 

 

 

 

I bite my lips, and look down, silencing my pain and my frustration in a botched bow, when Armand's cold fingers come and shake my free hand twice. My eyes dart up to his face. He smiles, poised and graceful, and as the best medicine he could pour over my wretched flesh, he _speaks_.

 

 

He speaks, clear and sound, loud enough to be heard by everyone around:

 

-” I thank you, Captain Treville, for you have done much more than your duty. I will make sure your bravery and your loyalty never go unrewarded. Will you do me the honor of walking at my side to meet His majesty?”

 

 

Those three sentences almost cost him his balance, his breath coming in short gasps for a while, and a nasty cough threatening to steal what's left of it. Stunned, I just nod.

With a last shake of my hand he lets go of me to accept Aramis' help and slowly walk up the main stairs to the Louvres.

 

 

Above us, a lazy wind shakes the tall trees, and they whisper ancient tales in fluid moves.

The silken song grazes our backs, in the evening's solemn yellow light.

 

Every step is a struggle, and we're all locked in complete silence, the valets walking in front of the Cardinal, Aramis and me at his sides, D'Artagnan and Lagrasse right behind us, Porthos and Athos following. The slow ascent seems to take ages, cadenced by the sounds of Richelieu's painful breathing.

They must all be watching from inside, so he doesn't stop, he doesn't flinch.

 

They would be too damn _happy_.

 

 

 

No, he walks proud, his stare fixed and focused, strengthening his robes with an armor of lies, and from the windows he must look _almost fine_. It's all part of his plan, I know, and the least I can do for him is refrain myself from frowning at him in concern, But I'm sorry Armand, it gets harder by the minute.

 

I literally feel Richelieu’s chest constricting, and I hear Aramis whisper a word of encouragement, but I hold on, looking straight ahead, keeping my face as blank as I can, which has never been much, I fear.

 

 

After an eternity, the valets open the large doors of the Louvres, and bow respectfully for us.

 

 

We quietly step in, to the songs of lazy summer winds.

 

 

 

The first thing I see is a tight herd of blurred silhouettes, all of them dressed in formal wear, and far too many, _too many eyes fixed upon us_.

I want to look at Armand so bad it smothers me, but I won’t. I hide my panic by staring at the floor for a second, and look up with what I hoped to be serenity, but is nothing more than a blurry whirl of bitterness and defiance.

 

 

The King is standing. It means he didn't ask for a seat, that he _stood_ there for hours. I have no idea if this is a good sign or not. Around him, twenty courtiers in a circle, most of them Richelieu's enemies, devouring us with the dull and delighted stares of pigs about to be fed. Sniffing for his suffering like it's their bloody desert.

 

 

I grunt under my breath. Lowlifes.

 

 

Armand quietly dismisses Aramis' help with a smile, and the sheer _unwillingness_ of the boy as he lets go of Richelieu and takes two steps back is hearbreaking.

 

But he’s a soldier, and soldiers know how it needs to be done.

 

 

Armands stands by himself, the bright sunlight of Paris stretching his inhuman shadow as far as the King's own feet, and I see some of them pigs take half a step back.

 

Yes, you powdered sacks of shit, he survived.

He's still standing, crushing his weakness under thick layers of resolve.

 

He's still alive.

He's still Richelieu.

 

 

The King nods, and the least I can do is bow without a wince.

 

 

 

The Queen is nowhere to be seen, but right behind Louis's shoulder, I spot the smug, disgusting face of Cinq-Mars.

 

The fop, adorned and shining, is fanning himself like a Duchess, pursing his lips at the dreadful state we're in, and I swear I'll either watch him hang or cut him open like cattle.

I stare right into his eyes, pouring fire and acid into mine, and I don't stop until the rat looks down.

 

The sweet, yellow evening light grazes the wooden floors of the Louvres, and the smell of old oak welcomes me back like family. I wish I could walk in the gardens. I wish I could lie down in Armand's bed and sleep for two days.

 

But a low murmur is dancing among the courtiers as the King starts to _walk_ towards us. He’s not supposed to move, why is he walking? _We’re_ supposed to go to him, why is he frowning?

 

Maybe he’s angry.

Maybe he’s anxious.

 

The pigs’ whispers echoes upon the carved walls of the magnificent hall, a filthy hymn to Louis' steps.

 

 

Louis slowly approaches, and the time is now. Armand should speak.

I know he should, I know how he prepares his battlefields.

 

But his breath is torn flesh and broken bones, his hands strained from gripping each other.

All I hear is a wheeze.

 

_Armand, speak, for God's sake._

_You just spoke for me, do it for him._

 

 

_Armand!_

 

 

 

I can't look at him. If I do, they'll notice. I keep my eyes on the King, though he doesn't even spare a glance for me.

 

His growing frown is only for Armand.

 

 

 

_Please, Armand, breathe in, and speak._

 

 

 

 

There is a second where I see the King's face change.

Because he stepped into Richelieu's shadow, and he can see his face.

 

 

I see Louis' eyes widen, his lips parting, and his lively cheeks pale in a heartbeat.

Because he's two steps away by now, and he can hear him breathe.

 

 

God, he knows.

 

_**He knows.** _

 

 

 

The King of France stammers, his anguished eyes watching Armand with raw intensity, from head to toe and back, and one of his gloved hands reaches out to him spontaneously, before it retreats in hesitation.

 

Armand doesn't speak. He won't.

 

_He can't._

 

 

 

Standing up and breathing is all he can do. It takes everything, everything he has left.

If he tries anything more, he'll pass out.

 

 

One, two, three more breaths, and that sound of all things ending gets worse by the second.

 

Giving all I can to look straight ahead, gritting my teeth on my own fear, I catch that sickening look of fake concern on Cinq-Mars face. Christ, he doesn't even bother to try harder. While he knows the King can't see, all his skin literally dripping fraud.

Louis may love him, but that rat doesn't love him back. Not a shred, not a bit.

 

Disgusting heap of treachery.

If I wasn't so worried, I think I could throw up.

 

 

I look away in revulsion, just wait, you cockroach. _I'll have you hanged, or I'll slit your throat._

 

 

 

If this I my reward for looking ahead, well, the Hell with it. I turn my head towards Richelieu. Nobody’s even noticing at me anyways.

 

 

They’re all watching the King and his Minister.

 

 

Something’s wrong in Armand’s eyes, something blue has come back on his lips. He doesn’t move, his eyes heavy with emotion, but his body refusing him the slightest shift, his hands locked together, trembling. I know, I know for sure he’s burning out his last strength. Standing up and breathing as his most glorious battlefield.

 

They stand there, inches apart, staring at each other to the sound of broken bones.

Armand, desperate, ripped from his best weapon of all, is only trying to convey his hopes and his blind faith in the King without a single word.

Louis, white as a sheet, looks on the verge of tears, as he slowly takes in the pain he can see, and the wounds he can only guess. But this is a man's voice that's coming out of his mouth, not a child's, as he whispers in pure grief:

 

 

-”Dear God, the _state_ of you.”

 

 

Armand opens his mouth, letting out an awful sound of torn fabric, and this time, the King's hand dart out to grip the red silk around his right shoulder.

 

I see Louis' throat tighten, because he must have felt Richelieu’s spasms of exhaustion by now.

Since when has the whispering died?

 

There's only dead, inhuman silence.

 

 

What’s on those pigs’ faces and why they don’t speak anymore, I don’t care. I can’t tear my eyes away from Louis, as I witness is awe a mighty wave of anger rising upon his face, and Armand was true, he isn't young anymore. He is a great man, or soon will be. He is Louis the thirteenth, he is history in the writing, and there is a storm in his dark eyes.

A storm that could split the angry clouds of Chancelade in two.

 

 

Louis' soft features harden like water turns to ice, and over his shoulder, without even turning his head, he states with a stern, furious voice:

 

-”Monsieur de Cinq-Mars, you will have the kindness to lay down your sword on the floor.”

 

 

Gasps and cries rise from the pack of courtiers. Cinq-Mars stammers, looking around in fear, and his fan hits the floor with a soft thud. He calls to the King, begs, pleads, laughs and cries, but Louis steels himself, his eyes holding on to Richelieu’s clear, intense ones.

 

The rat squirms, refuses and denies, prays and stutters. I drink the terror in his shrieking voice like the best wine I could find.

 

The wolves in velvet who were surrounding him in complicity a moment ago are now softly sliding away from him, because there has never been a shred of honor among them all, and they flee the disgraced like they would a man struck by plague.

 

Around Cinq-Mars, a neat circle of emptiness forms itself, and his desperate calls for the King don't even disturb the evening winds.

 

His Majesty won't turn around.

 

 

-”Musketeers,” Louis orders, nodding towards my men; “arrest him and lead him right to the Bastille.”

 

 

I hear behind my back Porthos grumble something like “with pleasure”, and the four of them move towards the rat in fast, firm strides.

 

He's quickly grabbed, pushed and knocked until he cries in anger and disbelief, drawing his golden sword and throwing it upon the old oak floor. D'Artagnan smiles like a bird of prey as he drags him away as he would a sack of grain, and Porthos seems to enjoy silencing his high-pitched protests with vicious slaps in the face _far too much_.

 

 

The last thing we hear of Henri d'Effiat Cinq-Mars is a coarse insult for Richelieu, cut short by the sound of something heavy hitting a skull.

 

 

 

I’ll see him hang.

 _I’ll see him hang_ , and Armand didn’t even speak a word.

 

He didn’t have to.

 

 

The King only needed to look at him, to see the pain in his eyes, the loyalty, the anguish. He just needed to see how far Armand had gone, to know he couldn’t hesitate anymore.

 

_The King just choose the truer kind of love._

 

 

 

Silence only stretches for ten seconds, before Armand, whimpering, sways slightly to the side, straightening himself with great effort. Louis’ eyes frown in apprehension, and his other hand comes to grab the Cardinal’s left arm.

 

-”All of you, **out**!” The King shouts over his shoulder, his eyes fixed upon Richelieu.

 

After a short moment of hesitation, hissing murmurs and sharing glances, the courtiers crawl away also, hurrying towards the back door in frightened and awkward steps.

 

The king didn’t even turn his head once, grabbing the red silk with both hands, the strength of the bond between their eyes stronger than the miracles that old books speaks of.

 

 

 

I think the exhausted whine of relief I let out as I exhale was loud enough to be heard, but as we stand alone in the glorious golden light, Louis doesn't even spare a glance for me.

 

 

I'm not sure he even knows Lagrasse and I are still here.

 

 

 

 

The King is watching with concern Richelieu's breaths become scattered and pitiful, and as the wheezing starts to sound out of control, he gently calls him, searching for his eyes behind the mist of blurred pain.

 

“ _Armand._ ” Louis breathes, and I could be jealous, because there is a pure, vibrant love in that word.

 

 

But I see Richelieu's shoulders drop in relief, his exhausted eyes coming alive with devotion. I see the faint smile on his blue, cold lips, and the shudder along his spine as his whole body relaxes.

 

Louis smiles back, and this very second is so perfect it could only be painted by God.

 

 

But Armand's surge of affection has torn a breach in his armor, and sickness is a ghost.

The worst of all wars to wage.

 

He crumbles at Louis' feet the very second the back doors close.

 

 

The Kings lets out an anguished cry, and kneels at his side without thinking.

 

 

-”Call the physicians!” He shouts to Lagrasse.

 

 

So he saw us after all.

 

 

 

The brave boy runs off, and I am left to watch, stunned and helpless, Louis firmly helping Richelieu to sit up, leaning the thin red frame against his younger, healthier body. Armand is still conscious, but mortified and confused, and tries to fight his way up for a while, before the King pulls him back on the ground with a short hiss of exasperation.

 

_Heh. You and I are closer that I thought, Your Majesty._

 

 

 

Richelieu seems to realize he is literally lying into the King’s arms, wrapped into his worried stare, in the greatest hall of the Louvres Louis emptied for his sake. And right there, for a second I am sure, I am positive I get the glimpse of a smile on his thin lips, and I briefly wonder if this wasn’t this bastard’s plan all along.

 

After all, he’s still alive.

_He’s still Richelieu._

 

 

He remains slightly quieter for a while, his dazed stare on the floor, leaning on the side against the King’s chest, and seems to focus on breathing in, blinking a few times to clear his view. The King lays a hand on his forehead and winces. The fever is back. The fever never left.

 

-“I apologize, Your Majesty.” He finally manages to gasp.

 

And the King, surprised, only _laughs_.

 

-“Cardinal, even when you apologize, you are right.” He claims joyfully. “It is true, you are insufferable.”

 

Armand frowns, biting his lips, his shoulders humble, but Louis’ arms around him remain steady and gentle as he goes on, his voice softer for sure, solemn maybe.

 

-“But you are the best servant France could ever have, and at the end of all things, France must be our choice in everything. Your soul and mine, Monsieur de Richelieu, are quite the same, bound by the country we were born to maintain, and for that reason, I will keep you at my side until your dying day, may it be as far from now as it pleases God.”

 

 

The Cardinal doesn’t look up once, his head low, his hands joined upon his mouth, so I don’t think Louis can see the tears of joy rolling on his cheeks, but he must feel him shaking as he cries. The King’s face grows sterner then, and he whispers in the undertones of mild regret the Bourbons always used, in the rarest of times where they care to admit their mistakes:

 

-“I should be the one to apologize, Cardinal. I didn’t believe Henri could hurt you. I didn’t believe you could be hurt. You’ve been so strong, so absolutely immutable, all those years. Handling everything, managing everything, surviving everything. I didn’t think it to be true, until I saw you in that _state_ , Jesus, what they did to you, those rascals.”

 

 

A surge of red-hot anger flashes in Louis’ eyes, and I see his jaw tighten twice before he adds with a bitter stare towards the silent back doors:

 

 

-“No matter my feelings, no matter what my weak heart could wish for, hurting you is hurting France, and I cannot bear enemies of France within my sight.”

 

 

I wince in sympathy for that young, lonely King who must deal with the pain of loving a traitor, but I feel somewhat relieved at the thought he’ll never know who exactly put this lover into his bed, and for what kind of purpose.

 

 

-“You will continue to serve France, Monsieur,” Louis gently says. “I will make sure this never happens again.”

 

And suddenly, his steady eyes look right at me, and he smiles, thankful and proud.

 

 

-“We all will, my Musketeers and me.”

 

 

 

Armand stares at me for a while, and he reads the promise in my subtle nod. His last strength burns away, then, and his whole body slumps further against the King.

He tries to struggle away from the inevitable some more, but his eyes close on their own will, and as the court physicians barge in the hall with alarmed cries and apologies, he’s already asleep, almost serene.

 

 

Almost peaceful.

 

 

 

Outside in the gardens, as the tall trees tell their old tales, the first leaves of autumn gently fall on the white sand of the alleys, between the soap and the carnations, in the golden light of another Friday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Part six: As early morning dies.**

 

 

 

The sun rises upon the deserted gardens, a faint cold light creeping along the fountains, the naked rosebushes, and those alleys of white sand.

 

October has come and gone, and every morning, a thin white frost is lingering a little bit longer upon the dying leaves. Soon it'll last all day, and Paris will be speaking of Christmas time. Soon, sunlight will only last for a few hours, making nature and men move somewhat slower, most living things retreating into the warmth of their homes.

 

 

 

The sun has just risen, but it's already late. The season has come for the days that never seem to truly begin. It's almost morning until mid-day. It's almost night after dinner.

 

 

 

I've been sitting in his armchair for a short hour, wearing his nightshirt, listening to the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth, and distractedly shuffling through the papers on his desk. I read, sometimes, when I see something that catches my eye, or I just stare at his writing, smiling at its humble curves and harsh underlining.

 

Among the papers I did read, now laying on the ground as the dead leaves outside do, the letter of remonstrance to the Governor of Champagne for the taxes and dues required from the local people, ordering him to give back a part of what he has unfairly taken. On the back of the letter, a perfect reproduction of that table from the young clerk from Provins, Denier.

 

Armand delivered.

After all, he's a man of his word, or as much as he can be, living in the Palace of Lies.

 

 

A short note from Father Antoine of Bonnevaux, that must have come with a gift box I can't find, apologizing again in honeyed words, and confirming the arrest of the Dukes by the regiments of the King. He asks about the sentence Richelieu will suggest to the King concerning them, and by that rude comment in capital letters along the margin, I guess it will be death for all of them.

 

 

I knew, I knew this plot would be the last.

He'd let none of them alive to try once more.

 

 

 

An unfinished answer to a letter from Joseph. Unfinished because two weeks after our return in Paris, the priest was there in person, storming into Armand's chambers and shouting at him for working too much while still in recovery.

 

-”You sent me _fifteen pages_ of instructions last week, are you insane?” he hissed under Richelieu's nose. “Can't you rest a moment, for the love of God?”

 

Armand didn't reply, confused, and a strange, yet easy silence stretched between them for a whole minute. Then, the disciplined Capuchin just shrugged, and _embraced_ Richelieu with bruising force, babbling his relief and his joy at the sight of him breathing.

Armand's eyes widened in shock, but he let himself be held with a peaceful sigh. After a while, as Joseph didn't seem to let go of him, he simply chuckled and said:

 

-”Is it done?”

 

-”What?” The priest grunted, his arms still around Richelieu’s shoulders.

 

-”The instructions I sent you.”

 

-” _Of course_ , you restless fool.”

 

 

And Joseph let go of him, rolling his eyes as he strode towards me to shake my hands.

 

 

He stayed for dinner that day, and this might have been the oddest, yet gratifying dinner I ever had at the Louvres. Just bread and dried fruit, salted fish and wine, with Joseph facing Armand and me around a small table in the Cardinal's office. They spent a whole evening shooting wisdom and mockery at each other in nudges and undertones. At some point, to catch my attention on a particularly refined rant from the priest, Armand took my hand, and kept it tight against his chest all along, smiling brightly in candlelight. Joseph's voice didn't even drop once.

 

I felt odd, but I felt welcomed.

It felt weird, but it felt like home.

 

 

 _We have a friend_ , I realized, and the thought was nice to me.

 

 

 

 

 

In a plain leather book on the floor, the austere and rigorous bill for the meals, linens, and services required by Henri d'Effiat and his accomplice De Thou during their five days in the Bastille, between their arrest in the Louvres and their execution in Place de Grève.

 

D’Effiat’s family, including his father, who was a long-time friend of Armand, filed in his office to beg for Cinq-Mars life. Both his parents came in one day while I was still there, discussing rewards from the King for the five men who brought us back safely in Paris.

 

Both ignored me completely.

  
The mother prayed and pleaded, cried and sobbed. The father appealed to old time’s sake, to trust and friendship, even to mercy, and Armand could have been almost cordial, if the old man didn’t dare to utter the word “ _honor_ ”.

It sent Richelieu into a fit of blinding rage, the blood red silk whirling around d’Effiat’s father, the slender hands slashing the air. He shouted in fury and spite about how Henri hadn’t even a concept of honor in his heart, and should be put down like a dog.

 

 

-“You want honor for your name?” He spat at old d’Effiat’s face. “Then here's my act of mercy: your son will be decapitated, instead of hanged. It’s all the same to me.”

 

With that, he sent them away with an imperious snap of his fingers.

I haven't seen them ever since.

 

 

 

It is then, I think, as he went back to sit at his desk, that I noticed it.

Upon the wall behind him, just below the monumental painting of his Cardinal Arms, in red chevrons, crown and cross.

 

Just below his arms, he had a sword neatly hung upon the wall.

A burnt, bent sword devotedly wrapped in shreds of red silk.

 

I wondered who he would avenge the most by cutting those two heads.

And as I stared in confused sorrow, I could swear I heard Jussac’s laughter again, rising high in the pouring rain.

 

 

 

And yes, Richelieu watched Cinq-Mars and De Thou die. We both did, comfortably seated on the first-floor balcony of the House of Bailiffs, and when the commissioned priests around us started praying for their souls as the executioner's sword whistled in the air, the Cardinal ordered them to be quiet.

 

They stared at him in outrage and in fear, staggered by his cruelty no doubt, but I smiled and cheered inside, as I wanted them burning in Hell for eternity just as much as he did, _if not a little bit more._

 

Their heads rolled like ripe fruits upon the wooden platform, and the crowd around rejoiced, careless and ecstatic, ripping their bodies to shreds and playing around with their clothes. Most of the people didn't even know who those men were, as they dragged their corpses on the ground before they let them to rot in the mass grave that never had time to be covered and closed.

 

When it was all over and done, the people of Paris, bored already, returned to their lives.

As the Place de Grève slowly emptied and the executioner asked for his fee, Armand got up, wincing a bit, gripping his wounded side, and gently asked for a cup of tea.

 

 

 

 

Papers, maps and notes are scattered on the floor around me now, like a broken book of memories, covering the old oak parquet with subtle lines in his writing.

 

And yet, there is only one sheet I've been keeping in my hands, since long before the sun rose upon the alleys of white sand.

 

 

I graze it with my fingertips, looking outside by the window behind me.

The season of the lazy days has come, the gardens belong to the robins and the sparrows alone, and it will be so until mid-day. No boot, no shoe will mark the raked sand before long, and the trees are whispering their tales for no one.

 

I get up with a flinch, and limp to the hearth. I don't need those clutches anymore, but there will be some time before I run around the exercise yard again. I could be upset, but truth be told, I’m fine.

The tale of the battle for Chancelade has made its round among my men, and they all look down as I hobble along, all of them too damn honored to take my orders. I don't want to be a legend, I never will, but right now, it helps, so I won't complain.

Those who heard the tale fear and respect me without a word, and for those who didn't, well, I can still shout loud enough to be obeyed anyways.

 

 

Captain Treville lives.

 

 

 

Still gripping my small sheet of paper, I put a new log in the fire, and turn around towards the bed.

 

 

My Armand.

He's still sleeping, curled around the spot I was lying upon, the sheets around his waist like a tribute to his white skin. The sheets of red silk.

 

_Those sheets of red silk._

 

 

 

I remember I wondered how much time it'll take before I could give him pleasure again.

 

How much time? Well, his wounds didn't fade easily, and God, the _sickness._

 

 

After that moment of grace in the reception hall, the physicians took Armand away, and Citois ordered them around for a whole day. They spoke many names, many words, causes and effects, ointments and potions, none of which I heard about before, but they all checked him for blood, and I knew Joseph had been right all along.

 

Though Citois came to me after it all, tired and dirty, wiping his hands with a wet cloth, and told me there was hope for a full recovery, that nagging worry didn't leave the back of my mind.

 

Since we left Fontfroide on that sunny day, I never stopped watching for that blood red stain upon his hands, every time he coughed.

 

And I don't think I ever will.

 

 

 

Citois is a clever man, he knew what to do, and I heard that later on, Armand woke up after no less than forty hours of sleep, his eyes clearer than ever, to find the King slumbering on a chair at his bedside.

Richelieu told me with careful pride that as he cleared his throat, Louis jumped, opened his eyes, called him Armand once more and kissed both his hands in bliss.

 

The King hadn't called him that way again ever since, but I don't think I've seen them that comfortable with each other before, sharing knowing glances, their words conniving, their smiles matching.

 

It is unique, after all, that mystic bond between those two.

Master and servant, Armand moving around Louis in humble stances, pleading sometimes, suggesting at most.

Brothers in arms, scheming sieges and battlefields, side by side around a map of France, under a Holy Cross in stained glass, and the stern portraits of the Bourbon lineage.

 _Father and son_ , because someone must say it as it is.

 

How else could it be for Louis, losing his own father at nine, only to find that tall, clever man standing far too close to his mother, every idea, every whisper of him so unbearably _right_?

He hated him, he feared him, he chased him away and he called him back.

If this is not what a son does, I have no idea.

 

 

 

How much time? Well, the King visited the Cardinal’s rooms every day at first, insisting upon Richelieu remaining as still as possible. Then, as Armand healed and recovered, Louis found him more and more in the Royal apartments in the early morning, papers and books already disposed on the tables, a list of the matters at hand between his thin fingers, and his visits became scarcer.

 

 

When the King visited no more, I knew the time was right.

 

 

How much time? Well, Citois nearly lived next door at first, then only passed by twice a day to deliver medicine and care. Then once a week, for conversation more than treatment, I think.

 

 

When Citois passed by no more, I knew the time was right.

 

 

 

 

 

And by then, October had come and gone, the gardens covered in dead leaves, the sand alleys waiting for the robins alone.

 

By then, the season of the lazy days was back to stay.

 

 

 

 

 

It hasn’t been easy. It had been so long. I feared the fever, the nightmares. I feared pain and I feared fatigue, I feared everything, including my own old skin.

 

When I knew the time was right, I tried to smile at first, making our kisses a little deeper.

He melted into me as he always did, but got distracted fast, speaking in awkward whispers how he’d fall behind his work in his sickness, squirming out of my arms to stride back to his paperwork.

 

I brought him wine, and talked sweetly then, trying to pull him away from diplomacy and finance with old Bourgogne and memories.

He listened of course, smiling as he always does, but sighed soon enough, as unsure as I was, and retreated into his duties with apology in his voice.

 

I was beginning to despair, and avoided to even cross Armand’s path for a week, only to sink further into frustration and pain.

 

 

 

 

It started to have consequences in the Garrison soon enough. I think my need to unwind pushed me too far one cold morning, and I realized how upset I was when I saw five cadets lying in the dust around me, and felt my overused leg shudder in spasms. God, it hurt.

When I turned around, Aramis was looking at me with a concerned frown, and he might have been shaking his head.

 

When I asked him what was wrong, as if I bloody didn’t know, he simply smiled and asked for news of the Cardinal. “A week without a word from the Palace is unusual” he mused, and I hated him for it.

 

 

But something snapped in my guts I suppose, because I had Minerva saddled in minutes and strode to the Louvres with the dust of my yard still stuck to my hands.

 

 

I barged in his rooms, found him about to leave, ten scrolls of paper under his arm. He spoke, but I didn’t listen. I locked his doors, pulled off my doublet and weapons, throwing them all on the floor, ripped his papers from his arm and rolled my shirtsleeves up.

 

He watched me with wide, frozen eyes, and moved to slide away from me, but I grabbed his cheeks and went for his jawline, devouring his skin until he couldn’t find a word to say. When I was sure he was listening to me at last, I gripped his hands and placed them over my chest, upon the thin fabric of my shirt.

 

-“Feel me, Armand.” I ordered. “I’m alive, I’m alright.”

 

 

I didn’t want to be harsh, I didn’t want, I swear, but after all, that’s how I am.

I am a soldier, _nothing more._

 

 

I didn’t want to be rough, but his wet, parted lips, and the red hues of his cheeks were almost too much to bear. I pressed myself against him, forcing one of his hands between my legs, and hissed:

 

-“I’m alright and _I want you now_.”

 

 

He whimpered, his eyelids falling close, and I kissed him hard, my tongue stroking his, stopping only because I remembered the damage in his lungs. He slid his hand away from my pants without much of a touch, but his other hand did linger above my heart for a while, grazing the flesh there, as if to count my pulse, but he sure was too aroused to count anything.

 

He let me kiss his neck some more, even let out a shaking sigh, and when he spoke about a meeting with the King that couldn’t wait I growled, but he laid a light finger upon my mouth.

 

-“Don’t be mad at me, _thou mighty knight of mine_ ,” he breathed softly. “I’ll send word tonight.”

 

 

I knew he would, so I let go of him. He almost swayed backwards.

He let me pick up his papers and hand them to him while he focused on catching his breath, then unlocked the door and disappeared in a swirl of blood red silk.

 

 

How much time, I wondered.

Well, by then, the season of the lazy days was back to stay.

 

By then, it was already last night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He welcomed me with a smile I could fight a whole country for, pulling me with him to his bed. I saw the sheets of red silk, and must have whispered that I loved him, because he laughed, and breathed something absolutely _sinful_ in my ear.

 

 

I took my time, because the stitches on his side were still purple, and my leg could give up on me anytime, but something slow was just as good. I tried to be quiet, I tried to be calm, but he cried out at some point, and I never could resist much of that. I thrust into him and he called my name, as I lived and died in the curve of his neck once more, and I was complete again.

 

 

After it all, too tired to even try anything more, Armand kissed my hair and hummed our soldiers song. I laughed in my pillow and he smiled like angels do.

 

 

“What about the reward for _your_ bravery, beloved?” He asked. “Is there something that you want? You know I can bend a whole world to your will.”

 

 

I looked at his ardent, resolved face over my shoulder, and I think I believed him.

 

The hearth and the candles painted his silver hair in fire and gold, and I told him I already was the richest man on Earth.

 

 

I told him he was France, after all, and he lowered his eyes, pliant and docile under my hands. He submitted to me, as he always did.

 

 

I had my own France curled up beneath the palm of my hand.

Who am I to ask for anything more?

 

I am Jean, the second son.

 

 

 

I stroke his back, still surprised to find no trace of sickness on his skin, still stunned not to hear the storm anymore. The rains had vanished, the winds had ceased.

 

 

Somewhere in Chancelade, the yellow mud had dried.

 

 

Bloodstains had gone, wounds had healed, and my Armand was alive, his eyes of stained glass watching me with quiet, radiant love, and I don't think I cared for Heaven anymore.

 

 

-” _Yours, forevermore_.” he breathed, and I don't think we spoke much after that.

 

I don't know, _I don't know._

 

All I remember is the smell of his tea coming from the hearth.  
I remember my uniform scattered on the wooden floor.

 

 

 

_The touch of his fingertips on my chest._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I gently sit on the bed, careful not to wake him up, and pointlessly arrange the sheets around his scarred waist. Outside in the cold, the trees whisper for no one else that the robins and the sparrows.

 

The dead leaves fall, performing their last barn dance, heavy with frost and all the tales the wind could come up with. The sun has just risen, but it's already late. It's early morning no more.

 

The skies have turned the timid hue of lazy days. Not a cloud, not a single stain upon God's everyday painting practice.

Monochrome in blue.

 

 

 

I unfold my small sheet of paper, and my mind reads it in his voice, as it always does with his handwriting.

 

 

 

“Come tonight, and take what you fought so hard to protect.

  
Come tonight, and take what's _yours, forevermore_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I look up from the note, he's awake, his eyes looking right at me, and as our lazy morning expires, he speaks my name, and all is said.

 

 

 

I thank the skies of monochrome, I thank sunlight and whispering trees.

Because today his voice is the first one I hear, close to me, _so close to me._

 

 

 

 

We get to live, Armand and I.  
We get to live.

 

 

 

_**As early morning dies.** _

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. It's over. 
> 
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> With that ends a whole chapter of my life. I'm glad I shared it with you. 
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> Again, one last time, tha game of what's historical and what's not. 
> 
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> 
> First, the dates, of course, are wrong. The Cinq-Mars plot doesn't happen eighteen months after la Rochelle, but fifteen years later.  
> I moved Cinq_mars earlier, as I already said before, to be able to use a (relatively) healthy Armand, because by 1640; he was carried around non-stop.  
> But nevertheless, i added the first signs of tuberculosis, so it's not completely off-time. 
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> I wanted a happy ending, a real one, so I twisted the dates to give Treville ten good years with Armand after that.  
> Because anything Trevilieu IS bending History, anyways. This is AO3, not History Channel. 
> 
>  
> 
> Second, the arrest of Cinq-Mars. It was in Narbonne, not in Paris, because he didn't stay at Court when he learned Richelieu had uncovered him, he flew away quickly. He was less stupid and arrogant than the Cinq-Mars of my fic.  
> He was arrested in Narbonne and decapitated in Lyon, without the presence of Richelieu, too sick to go down south. 
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> Finally, the loose ends.  
> What happens between Armand and Aramis?  
> Will the King keep on being so sweet?
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> Well, you make your own opinon.
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> You write your own story. 
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> I don't have much regrets about this huge pile of nonsense being finally done, but I'd be very sad if i lost contact with you.  
> Please, keep on submitting prompts, I will write again, only shorter piles of nonsense, like "the Exile of d'Epernon". 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr (Freyalor) or comment here, so I can hear from you! 
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> Love you all, 
> 
> Freya.


End file.
